


nothing is heavy to those who have wings

by Brachydios



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Devildad and Spiderson, Family Fluff, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Matt Murdock & Foggy Nelson Friendship, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parent Matt Murdock, Peter Parker is Matt Murdock's Biological Child, Timeline What Timeline, also it is my moral obligation to never watch an avengers movie, will probably ignore civil war and infinity war and endgame cuz I ain't committed enough for that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-09-07 18:28:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20314024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brachydios/pseuds/Brachydios
Summary: Matt has a son, and his name is Peter Benjamin Murdock.





	1. Chapter 1

Matt had met her a coffee shop.

Which, really, is probably as cliché as it gets. The shop had been small and cramped, stuffed into a corner with food and drink that was perpetually burnt, but opened early and closed late with free and fast WiFi and was near the bus stop Matt needed to board to trek towards Landman and Zack.

But, really, a coffee shop, and Matt still feels as though that part of his life was badly written romance novel that had been scrapped halfway through. 

Insipid as the entire establishment was, cluttered with bodies and whatever it was the owners thought passed as decor, the goods were cheap and the WiFi really just made up for the rest. Listening, he mapped the area: six window-side tables with a pair of chairs on either side. All chairs had been occupied with an active heartbeat, laughing and chatter thrown in between the space of the duos on either side. Except for one, an open seat with quiet occupant on the other, the constant clicking of a keyboard the accompanying soundtrack for this individual. Fine. He wasn’t looking for company, he was looking for a seat to establish and a portion of a table to use to settle his coffee (black, no sugar, no milk) and his files that he needed to organise and make sense of before he clocked in.

Matt had met Mary when he approached her table.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” He asked.

“Nope, make yourself at home.” She said, the movement—or lack thereof—of her hair says she doesn’t lift her head to look at him from her screen.

He gave his thanks through a quick mutter and settled. 

She continued her incessant clicking, and Matt's tangentially aware that she typed two paragraphs before she takes actual notice of the man seated across from her.

He’d been reading and shifting through cases when her clicking stopped. The change in direction of her breath meant she looked up from her laptop, the prickling of the hair on the back of his neck announced that she was looking at him.

She smelt of jasmine. The buoyancy of her hair and clicking of her sharp nails against her keyboard suggested a well groomed and kept woman. A businesswoman.

Her momentary distraction from her work had been short lived; the clacking of her keyboard returned soon after.

“Keyboard tip you off that this table wasn’t completely empty?” She asked. Her voice had probably been as dry as the half-eaten bagel stationed at her left.

“Indeed.” He said, moving his fingers over the Braille of his papers.

_ Clickety-clack. _“And who is that I have to thank for the lovely company?” 

“Matthew Michael Murdock, at your service.” 

A snort. “Wow, triple M. Really liked that alliteration, your parents?”

A smile of his own. “Something like that.” 

She hummed, the minute whisper of a _ pop _means she purses her lips; she wore lipstick. “Mary Fitzpatrick.” 

“Irish?”

“Third generation Irish-American. Family immigrated in 1930.”

“1889, fourth generation for me.” He registered the Pierre and Randall cases in the _ Disregard _ section of his binder, which also doubled as his _ Look Into Later In Private _ division. 

“Hmm.” Mary appraised. A tap on the table, new weight being distributed; she leaned on her elbows and inspected her companion. “And what does Mr. Murdock do to have such a nice suit?” 

He tilted his head slightly, considered the faint tingling dancing upon his skin birthed from her staring. “Lawyer.”

“Oh, so you’re a leech.” At his snort, she snickered. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I’m an accountant.”

He gives another tilt of the head, towards the opposite direction, paused in his reading. Matt remembers smiling. “Glorified secretary?”

She lets something small and short, but a bark all the same. Her chair makes noise; she leaned back in her seat. Her voice was wiry, hiding that would-be wit he’ll be welcome to. “Hey, I got connections in the CIA. Insult me like that again and you might disappear.” 

Matt won’t need to imagine the verbal spit roasting she and Foggy could have, because they’ll do just that when they meet in two weeks. With her snark containing a certain underlying bite Matt will become intimately familiar with, a tone she’ll reserve when she has him in bed.

“Of course, ma’am.” He answered, a mock bow both in physicality and meaning.

Whirling of the air around her; she gave a flippant hand wave. “Ew, don’t _ ma’am _ me, I’m only twenty-six.” 

“My _ deepest _ apologies, madam.” The Goldsteins case was also directed to the _ Disregard _ file.

“You can make it up to me by buying me a drink.” Her chair creaked as she readjusted her weight to lean once more forward. _ Clickety-clack. _ “Also, sweet sunglasses.” 

And that was that. 

* * *

Mary becomes pregnant eight months later completely by accident.

She announces it by taking hold of the lapels of his suit roughly, and shoving him against the wall.

“_You got me pregnant,_” she drawls, not seething, not exactly. Exasperated, mostly, with breath hot against his face. Her heart betrays the roughness of her actions and coarse speech; quicker than usual, not as if she had run a marathon, but one brought from something undeniably resembling fear. Matt can smell the sweat on her back, but something else he can’t quite place, not yet. Familiar, in a background sort of way.

She stands with her body pressed up against his, invitingly warm despite the fact she slammed into him as she entered his apartment. Normally he’d welcome such an entrance, accompanied by her mouthing at his neck with teeth bared and a thigh suddenly in-between his legs. She does neither, however, and he already knew this meeting would be different the moment he caught wind of her nearing. He heard her approach, when she had rounded the corner and marched with purpose towards his building. The weight of her steps, the pace she carried herself, the breathing through her nose; all indicated this wouldn’t be one of their normal liaisons. 

And then he suddenly realizes the smell on her. She—well, she _ smells _ pregnant. Faint and weak, something Matt needs to consciously reach out towards, too early for it to be a settled signature. Her hormones have increased as her body prepares itself.

Pregnant. She’s _ pregnant. _

And she’s afraid. Of his reaction, of the life that will later present itself in her—he doesn’t know. _ He’s _ afraid, he belatedly realizes. His own heart flutters to match her own, breath stunned in his lungs and coming out stuttered as he tries to level his own thoughts. None of his limbs cooperate at such a hammer to the face. 

He listens to their combined heartbeats in an attempt to ground himself, “Pregnant?” He asks, feeling his own brows reach towards his hairline in some sort of helpless expression. She isn’t lying.

“Yeah,” she intones, like describing something particularly simple to someone particularly stupid. “You proud of yourself on that front?” 

For all his senses give him, nothing helps the static in his head. Matt doesn’t like swimming, the clogging of his hearing from the water is unpleasant like a centipede going down his ear canals. Accentuating the blood that thrums in his veins, too loud and too encompassing, and he may as well be submerged completely. Mary’s still staring, her hands still clenched upon his chest.

He doesn’t hear the noises outside. Everything’s merged together in something blurry. There’s a pair of idiots attempting to rev the engines of their car as a show of bravado only a mere block aware and he doesn’t hear it. He’s focused solely on the woman in front of him. 

“Are you going to keep it?” He asks, mouth dry.

“Do you want me to?” She asks, slowly. Carefully done with little inflection, but there’s a subtle hitch when she finishes her question. 

“Yes.” 

There’s no hesitation, and Matt surprises himself so much so he stops breathing. 

_ She’s pregnant. _ He can’t think of anything else. The fact repeats itself constantly and echoes as if in a vast cave, the reverberations constant and overlaid upon each other. Loud, _ so loud. _

Mary speaks through it still. “You gonna take care of it?”

He’s still not breathing. “Will you marry me?”

He says it as a whisper, breath leaving him like all his energy has been sapped out, air entering him like a punch to the gut. Bared out like his heart was on display for her to step on because he's suddenly governed by foolish thoughts. His skin blossoms in goose pimples as if he were suddenly made nude.

He owes her this obligation. He was the one who knocked her up, after-all. They could reap the legal and social benefits, and for him to soothe his sense of duty of their related fate.

(As people act, God watches.) 

Mary makes a sound. She reels back, the fluttering of her eyelashes meaning she blinks rapidly in surprise. The weight of her fists against his chest lessens as she steps back, and he thinks she’s going to refuse. He doesn’t know how to act then. He doesn’t know how to act if she says_ yes. _

Mary snorts, after a moment. Her hands leave him. “Usually you drop down to one knee for that.” She says simply.

Was that a yes? That might have been a yes. He’s going to get married. Actual, real life married. 

“Do you want me to?” he asks, words broken with a weak laugh.

She’s pregnant. He made her pregnant.

“Nah,” she responds. Hair being sifted; she runs a hand through it. Black hair, she said when he had asked. Short and curved around her jaw, when he had his hand carded through it on the occasion when their mouths were on each other.

Which fabled encounter was it that led to this? Shit. He can’t move from his position against the wall. He listens dully to Mary stepping towards his couch before she unceremoniously flops on to it.

“I want you to get me the biggest tub of chocolate ice-cream Hell’s Kitchen has to offer.” She says with a huff, and Matt can’t help but laugh something small. And tired.

He’s _ exhausted, _suddenly_. _Legs only barely keeping himself upright, and Mary’s announcement was the greatest marathon he’s ever experienced. 

“Does that substitute for the ring?” He asks, his head floating away from the rest of his body. The crying infant in the next building isn’t helping matters.

“You’re still going to get me a ring, Murdock.”

“I feel like we’re on a first name basis, now, Mary.” He walks unconsciously towards her, once more in water. He sags downwards as a boneless heap to the floor, back resting against the couch.

Her heart is nearer to her normal pace. Calmed with a more predictable rhythm. He listens, focused and sedated upon its melody. He wonders how long it will take to hear a second heartbeat from her. He hears her fiddle with her fingers in that still ever present anxiety.

“Mary Murdock,” she mutters, and Matt nearly has his heart seize that he doesn't hear that her tone is unsure. “Now doesn’t that have a ring to it, huh?”

_Mary Murdock, _ fuck. _ Fuck, _ he needs to bury his face in his hands, palms set firmly against his eyelids. He counts his breaths, _ One-two-three. _ They come out shaking. _ He’s _ shaking.

“We’ll make it work, Murdock.” 

“Yes.” He says, nodding absentmindedly.

_ A father, _he thinks, too dizzy to even properly comprehend it, like it was still some far away concept.

* * *

“I’m going to be a father, Foggy.” 

His breath is a waft with alcohol, everything’s too warm beneath his skin, everything comfortably blitzed with Foggy as his anchor in this bar.

“That right?” Foggy laughs, giggles with snorts planted in between. Matt is nearly careened off his bar-stool when Foggy bumps shoulders playfully. 

“Yeah,” Matt says, floating. He hasn’t slept for three days.

There’s more snickering in Foggy’s direction. Rustling of clothing, rubbing of skin; Foggy rubs at his nose, still finding this whole exchange amusing. Matt will need to find audiobooks on parenting, he realizes with another swig of his drink, which goes down like fire down his gut.

Matt hears Foggy’s breathing pattering out; he eventually stops his giggling fit, looking towards his companion. The lack of creaking of his seat signals to Matt that the man straightens, just minutely, as he further investigates Matt’s own reaction. Matt still ‘stares’ into the wood of the countertop, easing out his own breathing. Will it be a boy or girl?

Foggy has sobered up remarkably quickly. “Wait,_ really?”_

Matt traces the rim of his glass with a finger. The bar itself isn’t tightly packed, sparse with guests with what Matt assumes to be some folk song playing on the speaker. There's a pair of men speaking about the results of some sports game. A group of five women are speaking of a television show about dragons, he thinks. He’s certain the bartender is attempting to eavesdrop on Foggy and him.

“Mary’s pregnant.” He says, after an effort. Like an abstract concept, that never gets clearer even when attempts to put the pieces together, still as nebulous as before. 

Silence. One of the women’s favourite dragons has died in the newest episode, and she is, quote: _ ‘emotionally compromised.’ _ Then: “...Mary,” Foggy says, slowly, like her name is a foreign word. “The human calculator?” 

He snorts. He hopes the child inherits her smarts. And his, as testified by multiple, dashing good looks.

He wonders how their child will look like. A good jawline, certainly, at the very least. A button nose? He likes button noses.

“I’m gonna marry her.” He says, and before he is cognizant of the fact he feels his face break out into what can only be described as a _ ‘goofy grin.’ _ He can’t help himself. _ A husband, a father, _those were ideas only ever distant and almost trivial, to him. Thoughts only a lonely boy in an orphanage played with when everything else was too loud.

Matt faces his friend, lifting a hand to squeeze the other man’s shoulder. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna be a _ dad, _ Fogs.” And then _ he’s _ giggling. How absurd, the very thought.

“Oh.” Foggy says. Matt hears him blink multiple times, opening and closing his mouth, before he can speak again. “Shit. That’s—holy shit, that’s great. Fuck.” His disbelief doesn’t bother Matt. The hesitation turning into that eventual startled acceptance has Foggy move; he turns, slowly, to stare bewildered at nothing, before Matt can feel him reinstate his gaze on him. 

“Do I get to be Uncle Foggy?” He asks, and his voice is_ hopeful. _ Small like he asks an impossible thing, and Matt knows he’s been given an inconceivable honour.

Matt laughs, moving to give his friend an amical, albeit awkward, side-hug. “Of course. Wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

“_And _your best man?” He may be waggling his eyebrows, Matt isn’t certain. The women are still talking about dragons.

“You’ll be my only best man.” He says it like a secret, like two men conspiring something nefarious in a bar. They both break into laughter. 

“That’s kinda sad, dude.”

“It’s true, though.” 

* * *

Turns out, Mary doesn’t want to get married.

“Listen,” she starts, the sound of his running her hands through her hair loud in his apartment, the sound of her heart thumping making his own speed up. She’s pacing in front of him. “I can’t get married to you, alright? I can’t just rush into this just because you put a kid in me.” 

“And that’s exactly why we should,” Matt says, the near screech of her shoes coming to an abrupt stop leaving all the air in the room stifling. “Because we’re going to have a child.”

“No, _ you _ are.” He goes to say that it is not _ him _ pregnant, but _ her; _ but she continues. “You want this kid, yeah?”

He gestures helplessly in front of him. “Yes!” He blurts out. It is his responsibility to, he owes both _ her _ and the child that much. 

“_I _ don’t want it,” she says, she _ stresses_. He’s heard this tone before, from clients, imploring for him to believe in them when no one else would, to help them when they sought help before but faced only closed doors. She’s pleading with him. She’s desperate. He doesn’t need to listen to her heart or the displacement of the air with her frantic gestures to understand that.

“Mary,” he starts. 

She doesn’t allow him to continue. “You got any idea how many times I wanted to drink or smoke these past few days? I haven’t been sleeping like a normal person, I feel like my hair is gonna hair out because I can’t stop thinking about this—this fucking _ thing _ growing inside me. You think that’s a good sign of a mother?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it, and he can hear Foggy's voice complimenting his impression of a fish in his head. He opens it again with words at the ready. “You could change. You might change your mind—”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” She roars, voice laced with in sharp annoyance. She's angry, obviously, but it is also diluted by dread, betrayed by the fluttering of her heart. “This is your fault, you made me pregnant. This is your spawn inside of me.”

“We _ both _ chose to have sex!” He asserts with his own annoyance and incredulity growing into a fire inside him at her gall. He intends to step forward towards her, a finger pointed sharply in her direction; but his march ends prematurely as he hears her take a step back. “It is _ our _ child. We _ both _ made it. We _ both _ have an obligation to it because we’re the ones bringing a kid into this world!”

“If _ I _bring into this world.” Her voice is stiff but held with determination. Matt hears her fists clench. She takes a deep breath. “I can still get rid of it.”

He reels, shocked like he had been slapped. “_You_—no.”_ No, _this is his kid. His _child, _she may as well have put a gun to his head. “You can’t. You said you’d keep it.”

Is that his voice? He sounds so desperate. Like all his rational has been forgotten entirely and he's just powerless. Just a boy parading as an adult.

The air is a black cloud around them. There’s no heartbeat yet developed from her womb, obviously, but he feels like he can hear its echo. A small, deceptively light ringing that he attempts to focus on, but another pregnant woman sleeps in the next building. God, he really is desperate. He didn't even _want_ kids before all this, the mere thought was so pointless in his life. But he accidentally made his fuck-buddy pregnant and he's been barely able to think coherently since.

Mary shifts her weight. He hears her place a hand on her hip, the other once more running through her hair. She exhales deeply, her heart steadying itself. 

Her tone is a controlled level one. “I’ll keep it, if you take care of it. I can see how much you want this kid, Murdock. You want this kid more than anything else.” 

“_Yes._” He says, with some sort of frantic urgency, like he may break apart into pieces at any moment and this is the glue to keep himself together.

“Then you can have it. Full custody and everything.” Mary says, a certain finality in her voice. “And then you never contact me again.”

Like a knife, screwed in deep. His jaw is set hard, hard enough to ache when he speaks again.

“I grew up with a single father.”

There’s something hollowed out in that. There’s a child skipping as she walks with her mother outside on the sidewalk. He hears Mary take in a sharp intake of breath, but not one out of surprise. She’s steeling herself against something. 

“Matt.” She says, hard.

He’s turned himself numb, long, long ago on this specific topic. He can feel his hearing beginning to fuzz out, the beginnings of static. “And I always wondered, why did the other children have a mom, but not me?”

Despite general consensus, children aren’t as stupid as they seem. He understood the absence of his mother, that it had elicited sympathy from some and others was a target to tackle when they wanted to bully him. Even before his blindness and advent of his senses, he remembers overhearing others. About how it was so sad, about how kids need a mother, about speculations if she was dead. Statements that are ludicrous and wholly unneeded, without context and ill-informed. He knows that now, as an adult, but as a child, they echoed enough that it kept him from sleep.

“_Matthew._” Mary says. She’s pinching the bridge of her nose.

“I would go to bed thinking, what made me different to not have a mom? Where was she? My dad said that she was too sad to be with us. I thought it was my fault. That she was sad. _ So sad, _ that she abandoned me.” 

He took time, and active training, to not get tight in the chest whenever he saw (and heard, later down the line) a child his age with _ two _parents. With a mother, who kissed them on the cheeks.

Fluttering of hair; Mary shakes her head. “I’m not—I’m not abandoning this kid, Matt.”

_ You are, _something vicious says inside of him, involuntary and full of passionate ire. A sudden switch so severe he thinks he feels vertigo from it. Something ugly crawls out of his gut, slick with an oil. It's what he feels when he wants revenge; when he had beaten an older boy into submission for stealing his lunch, when he thought he could kill the man who murdered his father.

(He can’t quite pinpoint why he needs revenge _ now, _ against Mary. But he’ll understand it as some residue from when he found himself alone without sight, without a father, without a _ mother._)

He shakes his head, a weight beginning to settle on his shoulders. “Then what are you doing?” He asks. _ You’re abandoning me, _stays unsaid.

He hears her swallow thickly. “Giving you a family.”

“Then marry me,” he reasserts, taking another step forward. She steps back. “Let me help you, Mary. You said we could make this work.”

She’s shaking her head again, her tone is once again pleading. “That—I’m not ready for this, alright? I’ve been thinking about this very goddamn waking hour. I don’t want to be a mother. I can’t be responsible for another living person. I don’t—I don’t even _ want _to marry you. Do you want your kid to grow up with parents that don’t love each other? We’d get a divorce in months.” 

Its true, everything she says. Her heart doesn’t betray her, neither does her voice or the way she shakes or the smell of stress off her. He wants to say that she doesn’t know that. That with enough effort on both sides, they could learn to love each other, or at the very least tolerate each other to be sufficient co-parents. But he knows, deep down, that’s a futile effort.

He swallows. It goes down like he attempts to choke himself.

“Okay.” He concedes, waving his white flag. “Okay.” 

He already asks so much, he knows. For her to carry _a child_ to term _for him. _He should be thankful. He _will _be thankful, when Father Lantom tells him he is being selfish, at the confessional, and to have faith in God’s plan for him, for his child. Mary could have gotten rid of it, she didn't even need to _tell_ him. She could have privately gone to a clinic and never spoken with him again, as is her right to do so. The fact he even knows she's pregnant is a miracle in of itself. She's doing this for him, and he's being selfish. 

The relief off her is instantaneous. Like a flood has sprang in his apartment. She sags, a small exhalation of total reprieve leaves her as a weak laugh. She steps forward, and Matt stands where he is.

He continues standing still when she places a hand on his shoulder. “Listen,” she says, bringing her other hand forward so she holds both his shoulders as she rubs her hands up and down in some sort of consoling gesture. “I looked up podcasts about parenting for you. For single parents. For _ blind _parents, alright? I’ll send them to you.” 

He can’t help but laugh at that.

Mary becomes registered as his surrogate, under an altruistic contract.

Almost, _ almost, _ there’s discourse in the court pertaining to his blindness and whether or not he could be an able father. An able _ single _father, without a sighted partner. 

But Matt’s not only a very,_ very _ good lawyer, he’s also very, _ very _tired of people assuming he can’t do things because he can’t see.

* * *

When he hears it, he walks into a table.

“Jesus,” Mary says, springing to his aid. She hovers at him with obvious concern, hands at the ready to steady him but he does so himself.

He doesn’t have any time nor mind to feel embarrassed over the fact he literally just nearly impaled his hip against the corner of his table. The table that hasn’t moved since he got it. 

His embarrassment is null, because with Mary this close, her belly nearer to his ear, he can hear it more clearly. There’s no mistaking it, now.

Concern evidently evaporated, Mary straightens. She scoffs, “You idiot, how did that happen?” 

“Hold still.” He says. His urgency makes her momentarily stiffen, freezing her hands up as if she was being arrested.

She blinks, once, twice, three times when Matt positions the side of his head onto her stomach, with his hands on either side of her hips to steady her. She then grunts, after a small bout of stunned silence. He both hears and feels her relax, her arms falling downwards to rest at her sides. He assumes she rolls her eyes at him, but he doesn’t care.

Like the thunder of a thousand galloping horses. _ 120-160 beats per minute_, Mary had read to him. The rate of a healthy heart. 

Her stomach is still flat, at eight weeks, the baby-bump not yet present. But a second heartbeat sings through her, and he feels like a boy again learning about the intricacies of pregnancy. Amazed that the human body could create life so, and he feels the urge to worship the temple in front of him. 

He knows, technically, with ‘normal’ senses he shouldn’t be able to hear his child’s heartbeat. 

(_His child_—still so dizzying.)

He would, realistically, need the help of a technician to hear the heartbeat, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t take notice to his own grinning, like a madman. 

Mary’s brought a hand upwards, patting his head, as if he were some overly affectionate dog.

She hums, idly carding her fingers through his head. “You’re gonna be a great dad, Matt. Really.” 

He could listen to its—_their _heartbeat for eternity, he knows.

* * *

“_It’s a boy,_” says the sonographer. 

Mary’s belly has extended, swollen and round. She’s got a hand on his shoulder, rubbing slightly.

_ A boy, his son. _

He can’t see the ultrasound, but he doesn’t need to.

“He’s got a big head,” Mary quips, her fingers squeezing his shoulder. “He’s gonna be a genius, Matty.” 

“Yeah,” he says, smiling and listening.

_ His _ heartbeat.

* * *

There’s fluttering of papers, and a thoroughly unimpressed noise coming from Foggy.

"You need an engineering degree to assemble this shit, Goddamn." 

"Language," Matt mutters, on the floor with what he believes to be one of the legs of the crib. The confounded contraption had felt perfect when Matt had scouted it out, and Mary said it was black, modern in design with soft curves and a _convertible_. He needed to ask her what that even meant, and it turns out, the crib can be changed into three different beds. At first, perfect, wonderful; three-in-one bed, for infant, toddler and even older, something used for many years to come, and Mary helped in purchasing it. 

But now, with the thing in pieces and with assembly instructions not in Braille (he doesn't know why he expected different, truly), he wonders if it may have been a little exorbitant. Excessive and a waste of money and all this thing does is confuse the two of them. He really should have become an engineer, he doesn’t think he could realistically sue the manufacturing company, though the temptation is there. If only for the lack of Braille or instruction videos.

"The kid ain't here yet, I can cuss." Foggy mutters back with what Matt thinks is a pout. There's more furling of sheets; is he turning the manual upside down to get a better look? 

Matt attempts to rationalize where this—torture-feeling device goes on this crib. "Good to break the habit early." He grumbles.

“Fuck this,” There’s a sudden blowup from Foggy’s direction, and the flapping of paper weaving downwind; he’s throw the papers in the air in exasperation.

Matt wrinkles his nose at Foggy’s direction. “You’re going to pick that up.” 

Who makes a mess in a blind man's apartment, _honestly,_ Foggy. Get it together.

“Uh, yeah, ‘course,” Foggy says, somewhat sheepish. Matt hears him then snort and shake his head. “I’m calling in backup. Maybe Mary can make better sense of this.”

(In the end, they return the crib and get a simpler one delivered already assembled.) 

* * *

The material in his hands are so dreadfully soft. He may as well as been holding a newborn puppy.

"I'm trusting you two that these match." Matt drawls, folding the baby clothes, a soft lime green he’d been assured, with matching socks. 

"Of course they match." Foggy says, with that _ Are you stupid, Matt _ tone of voice. Matt hears him turning his head towards their other companion. "Don't they match?"

"Obviously." Mary says, a little more convincingly than Foggy. The fact that Foggy even asked her plants seeds of suspicion in him. "You're going to have the most fashionable kid, Matt. Don't you worry." Mary says.

He sighs. Heavily and more theatrically than strictly necessary, as he puts the clothing into the shopping basket. He’ll have to trust these two are normal enough people that don’t have the cruelty in them to purposely mismatch the clothing for a blind man’s child. He hopes so, at least. He has reasonable doubts about Foggy.

“We should get only white socks,” Matt muses, out loud. White socks, no chance for mix up.

Foggy scoffs, and then there’s movement. Rattling; Foggy’s takes a pair of socks off the rack. He jiggles it, making sure Matt can hear its tag.

“This one’s got dinosaurs on it.” He says. “What kid doesn’t like dinosaurs? You really gonna deprive your kid of dinosaur socks?”

He says it as if it would be the most grievous of offences to not consider it. And Matt can almost believe him.

He plucks the socks from Foggy’s hand, “This is white-socks only household.” He says, as he tacks the socks back onto the rack (and hears Mary replace them in the correct aisle). 

“_Dinosaur socks,_” Foggy mutters, and Matt begins to think his conviction was sincere.

* * *

The changing table is more complicated than the crib.

“For the love that is everything holy,” Foggy moans, head in hands and a royal mess of parts between the two of them. “How the Hell do these people think we’re going to piece this architectural nightmare together?”

“With an engineering degree,” Matt says, defeated, on the floor again. This thing, with a three-drawer cabinet with a top that can lined with the included blankets. Cotton. It has _ wheels. _

Talk about new age.

Pieces for the table are still strewn on the floor, the behemoth of an instruction set littered about and mocking. Matt knows the thing is a barely half-made monstrosity. 

He hears Foggy step towards him, muttering a _ ‘on your left,’ _before he sits down. 

“That’s my right.” 

The creasing of Foggy’s pants abruptly stops, his descent stopped mid-way through. He grunts, re-lifting himself and walking to sit at Matt’s left.

He goes down with a _ thump, _ and Matt can _ feel _ the exhaustion of today radiating off him. Foggy—God’s gift to humanity, bless him—accompanied him to numerous baby stores for wipes, diapers, ointments, washcloths, cotton balls and a whole slew of other items, stocking as if they were preparing for the apocalypse. They’ve been mistaken for expectant husbands more times than he can count, to the point where they just both concede and call each other _ ‘partners.' _Because, really, at this point Foggy might as well be an official co-parent, awfully selfless he’s been. Matt needs to find a way to have him recognized as the Saint he is.

Matt doesn’t know what he’d do without him. He sends a silent thanks to the big man upstairs. 

"I just want you to know,” Foggy starts, “I'm not changing the kid's diapers. That's all on you."

Matt snorts. “Valuable life experience you’re missing out on.” 

It’s certainly _ not _ something he’s explicitly looking forward to, all things considered.

(And Foggy has his Saint status revoked.) 

They sit like that for a moment, breathing between the two the soundtrack that accompanies them. Sitting together with a changing table that probably looks like it imploded on itself, and Matt feels like this is the setting wherein he should have an existential crisis.

This is real. This is actually happening. He has a crib in his bedroom, holy _ fuck. _

Matt hears Foggy shift where he’s seated on the floor. He blows a raspberry through his mouth, hair swishing indicating to Matt that Foggy looks upwards to the ceiling, before slumping and sparing Matt a glance.

“Can’t believe you’re gonna be a dad. Wow.” Foggy mutters, disbelief still hinted in his tone. “You. A _ dad._” 

Well, that’s not exactly a winning endorsement.

Matt feels his brow furrows, tilting his head towards Foggy in silent question. Foggy’s inflection is near cynical, like speaking of some absurdity. And Matt finds, yes, he is actually slightly offended. 

Matt’s thinking of the most non-confrontational, but also most passive-aggressive, way to ask for Foggy to elaborate (settling, mostly, on simply asking_ “Elaborate"_). Foggy shifts again suddenly, before Matt can evolve from the stink-eye he's surely giving him. 

“I mean—you’ll be great. I know you’ll be great.” Foggy scrambles, and Matt hears the other man lift a hand in a placating gesture like Matt's got a gun pointed at him. “This was all just. Y’know. _ Fast.” _

Of course, Foggy isn’t _ wrong. _ And he knows himself not to be the spitting image of fatherhood. The fact he _ still _ hasn’t acclimated to the title of “father” is enough proof of that. Since Mary’s announcement it still feels as though he walks in a dream, like another person pilots his body. 

Everything’s been tilted and hasn’t righted itself since then, because his son wasn’t meant to happen in the first place, but he takes full precedent in Matt’s life at every moment.

He sags. “An accident.” Matt says.

Matt hears Foggy rub the back of his neck. “_Well, _ maybe it would be better to not think of it that way.” 

Maybe._ 'Accident' _has negative connotations. The kid was still unplanned, and he’ll readily tell his son that if he asks. Matt’s aged centuries already, and his kid isn’t even _ born _ yet. He’ll have to ask Foggy if he sees any grey hairs in the near future. But. _ But, _ he can’t deny that sense of invigoration within him. He’s anxious, certainly, the most he’s ever been in his entire life, at a near debilitating level. But he feels like an entirely new person, shedding an old skin to bring out a new one, something bright and polished. Well, _ more _ polished. It’s still rough around the edges.

He smiles, only a small rise of the corners of his mouth. “A happy accident.”

“That’s the spirit.” Movement, then Foggy lightly punching Matt on the shoulder. “You’ll raise him good, Matt. You’ll raise him right.” More movement, then Foggy leaning forward. “And you’ve always got me, yeah? Uncle Foggy’s got your back whenever you need it."

Saint status re-endorsed, then. 

“I hope you’re ready to get called for emergency clothing match checks and to help me tidy the place.” Matt says.

“And to make sure you don’t look like a disaster when you come into work. Would hate for a client to see you with baby food on your suit.”

“That too.” 

He’s going to be responsible for a whole living person. His kid. His son. 

Maybe he’ll never get used to that.

* * *

He’s got a crib in his bedroom. A changing table in the living room. His bathroom is _ stocked_. He thinks he probably has an absurd amount of towels. His bank balance is in shambles.

The entire course of his life just took a nosedive. The whiplash of such a sudden shift persisting like his head isn’t ever properly screwed on. He’s been running solely on caffeine to get him through the day and he knows that won’t change; he won’t be sleeping properly for the next couple of months when his son is born. He’ll need to get up every two-to-three hours to feed the little guy, he’ll have to change diapers _ seventy _times a week, he’ll have to make sure the boy has enough stimulus so that he develops properly, so say the articles he’s listened to. He’s going to have a kid. An actual son. 

The bare minimum would be to live his life for his kid for _ at least _ eighteen years, until he’s legally an adult. And, suddenly, that’s a very, very long time; _ endless,_ stretching to all eternity and there's never not gonna be a time where Matt isn't wholly responsible for his kid_. _ Matt’s life suddenly dictated by—a stranger. Who still resides inside Mary. His life is for this person who doesn’t even properly exist yet, he’s obligated to this kid for bringing him into the world in the first place.

Matt’s been standing as a statue in his living room for more than an hour now. It’s 10PM, and he has his phone out limply in his hand like a stone. He should call Mary. He _ wants _ to, some sort of midnight soliloquy to ask her to help raise their kid. _ Their _son, they both helped create him, he isn’t solely Matt’s spawn. Maybe he isn’t above begging. 

To beg her to marry him, so that he isn’t alone in this. He knows Foggy will be his rock regardless, but Foggy is his own person with his own life with his own apartment. He can’t wake in the middle of the night to swaddle the kid like Mary could if they joined hands in this, and shared rings.

He knows he’s being pathetic, that isn’t lost on him. That he would consider literal groveling, but the walls of his place are empty and quiet and the thought of a pair of young feet soon accompanying it is going to make him break out into a sweat. It’s such an alien feeling, like this child is going to intrude on something sacred. Which he also knows is a ridiculous thought, but the sound of cars blocks away and the chattering of drunkards can only distract him so much. 

He’ll be alone with a kid, _ his _ kid. His father had been alone with him, and he had cried himself to sleep on occasion, about the amorphous mother-shaped absence in his life. 

(Will he hear that from his kid too? The quiet sniffles that are stifled with a blanket but still too deafening. He can’t even bare the thought of it, something squeezing uncomfortably in his chest.) 

He never even thought about having kids before Mary’s reveal. It was barely something that crossed his mind unless prompted by another person about his future. The idea he could have a spouse and children were fanciful one-off imagines, ones birthed when sleeping alone at night became too thundering and his room suddenly morphed into his boardings at St. Agnes. Alone on a stiff bed in an unfamiliar place, his parents only ghosts and something cavernous inside him missing something he could never quite place.

He’s _ twenty-five, _ for Christ’s sake, he’s barely out of law school.

The very real and horrifying possibility he’s gonna irreversibly fuck this kid up is one that has his skin crawl like his flesh wants to seep off his bones entirely. Like this kid is going to inherit the fact there are days he spends using up all the hot water underneath the shower-head scratching at his skin until his whole body red, his own skin a foreign invader. That the impression he’ll leave on his son is something that resembles something too similar to Stick. 

His stomach is churning like a whirlpool. He’s braced against the wall before he is even cognizant of the fact. His gut constricts as a tight knot, and he needs to count his breathing to steady it, to focus on something before he can keel over and vomits all over the floor. He’s barely eaten anything as is, it’d just be stomach acid and _ that’s _ a bitch to clean.

(He thinks of his father, of how much he can remember his face. Of how warm and so undeniably safe the man made him feel, unshakeable and always his foundation. Jack Murdock had been the sun and the world is less without him, and Matt still feels that deep and unshakable ache.)

But he can’t leave this kid. He won’t. And he’d rather off himself than drop the kid in a basket at St. Agnes. Bless all the Sisters who devote themselves to their children, but he will not have his kid become haunted what he could have had, to be weighed down by rocks and thrown into the ocean. It wouldn’t be fair and it wouldn’t be right. 

He wants Mary with him. He wants Mary with their child. He doesn’t think that’s an absurd request to make. But he knows, ultimately, that Mary will not have herself be forced and their surrogacy contract is already in place. She’s already made it clear she does not want the child, or_ him, _and it cuts deep and twists. He knows it’s futile but the temptation is as heavy as the phone in his hands. 

(He needs to be like Jack Murdock.)

He doesn’t call Mary. 

He doesn’t get any sleep that night. Mary’s approaching due date is a looming thing. 

* * *

There is an infant in his hands.

A fake one. One made of smooth plastic and stiff limbs, and probably not heavy enough to replicate an actual baby. 

“So you can practice putting on clothes,” Mary says, and her tone is obvious in the fact she thinks this is the funniest thing in the world.

“You shouldn’t have.” Matt says, dryly. Because she really shouldn’t. The toy baby has three pairs of clothing for its closet, and Mary slaps his shoulder in some sort of camaraderie as she snorts and giggles. His unimpressed expression must be comedy gold.

And he had planned on throwing the thing away, dumped into the garbage and promptly forgotten and Mary’s odd attempt at some undecipherable joke left unsolved. 

He doesn’t, though everything tells him he should. Like a magnet, he’s drawn to the blasted fraudulent baby like it plays some siren song. Its plastic face, moulded so the baby sits with open mouth as an ‘o’ like a fish, reads like it knows something he doesn’t. This terrible plastic atrocity harbouring countless secrets. 

He sits on the couch with the thing on his lap, nude in all its synthetic glory with its clothing settled as an unceremonial heap next to him.

Babies _ wriggle, _ of course. They squirm and drool and have no concept of etiquette on the account of being _ babies. _They do not sit stiff as a plastic mound, when getting dressed. This toy is an awful teacher, and Matt idly thinks Mary gave it to him as some indirect poke at the fact he can’t see.

That alone should make him angry, but he sits and he—He. Dresses the thing. 

Obviously his son won’t be so well behaved, when Matt will shuffle clothing in his hands and feel around where that accursed foot is to slip it through a pant leg. The routine of it, dressing and re-dressing, on an unmoving plastic body is preposterously calming. He can drown out the yelling match between siblings on who gets to play on the Playstation two blocks down with the rustling of baby clothes.

Having something in his hand that is baby-shaped, with at least some weight, with little hands and little feet is…

It—makes it tangible. Real.

* * *

“Have I ever told you your apartment looks like a homeless person living in an abandoned warehouse?” 

“Thank you, your insights are very valuable to me.” 

He actually means that, considering he’s going to bring a kid into this place. Mary’s stomach is so alarmingly large, now, so ready to pop. Matt makes sure to pay his thanks in food when she tolerates him enough to allow him to rub her belly or listen onto his kid’s heartbeat.

(He’s memorized that rhythm, now.)

“You got flaking paint you need to remove, by the way, the kid may eat it.” She moves throughout his place, a phone in one hand while the other braces against her back to support herself. His son has gotten so much bigger since the first time he heard his heart, and Mary needs to practically waddle around the place. Matt never took notice of it, but pregnant women really _ do _ have a different gait when carrying their children. 

“I’ll have someone look at it, thanks.” Matt replies.

Mary’s donated her time to not only criticize his taste in interior decorating (_“I’m blind, Mary, you can’t exactly expect Kelly Wearstler."_), but also to prep his abode against the oncoming baby invasion.

She’s got an entire checklist with her, for which he is thankful;

_ Move all wobbly lamps behind furniture, _check.

_ Install fireplace screens around hearths, _check.

_ Put safety covers over outlets, _check.

_ Pad the corners of furniture with soft pads, _ check. 

_ Anchor TV and hide cords, _ he doesn’t own a TV. Double check.

_ Install baby-gates on the top and bottom of stairs, _ check (_Baby banishment zone, _ Foggy breathes when he firsts see it in some sort of misplaced awe, and Matt still doesn't know how to make sense of that statement).

He never realized how much _ guarding _ he would need. In hindsight it's obvious, of course. Babies aren’t exactly known for their self-awareness or critical thinking, and the multi-coloured detergent pods looks enticing to anyone. As Foggy tells it, anyway.

There’s too many safety latches and guards to count, and Matt will need to practice movement around these new safeguards. His apartment may as well be a warzone. Baby banishment zone, indeed.

God, he really _ is _preparing his place for the apocalypse. 

* * *

Listening to articles of experienced parents giving tips to new parents is—_exhausting. _ There’s so much shit. So much he needs to memorize. Worse than when he was in _ law school, _ for fuck’s sake, and infinitely more complicated.

Babies are ravenous. He already knew he’ll have to say goodbye to a proper sleep schedule, but he needs like ten bottles ready in advance for his kid. He’s going to be governed by bottles, a baby-formula factory, when one bottle empties he needs to make another in its stead. Just a constant, never-ending cycle, and his body is already tiring at the thought of it.

Seventy. _Seventy_ diapers per week.

(It’s what nightmares are made of.)

He doesn’t even know how other people do it. How _ his _ father did it. God help those who have _ multiple _ babies at one time.

Never mind _ Superheroes, _the true power lies in the fact that people are capable of raising their kids into functioning adults. 

He asks Father Lantom to pray for him.

* * *

  
Foggy and him are on a coffee break. Perfectly mundane and unremarkable and Matt hasn’t taken a drink of his coffee. Foggy’s been animatedly talking about something on his phone, something about trending headline that Matt doesn’t remember. He isn’t listening. Mary could be due any day now, and he feels like he could get knocked over by the wind at this rate.

Foggy evidently realizes his tirade isn’t doing much, because the next thing Matt knows, there’s incessant snapping in front of his face.

“Earth to Matty,” Foggy drawls, still snapping his fingers. “You alive in there, bud?” 

“Almost,” Matt mutters, leaning back into his seat and rubbing at his face to recover himself. 

“Cool, since you’re not completely zombified, you gonna use your words for once or act like the world’s saddest mannequin?” 

Foggy’s tone is flat, and Matt hears the man re-position his hands to be clasped in front of him as if he were with a client. 

Matt's heart hasn’t been normal for the entire day. There’s just a constant, ever-flowing and ever-present blanket of anxiety surrounding him, and he thinks he now knows how prey animals feel like on a daily basis. He’s being wrung too dry, pulled taunt and near a breaking point; Mary could give _birth_ at any moment. 

He’ll have a kid sometime in the very, _ very _near future and all his hair is going to fall out before then.

He’s been too still for too long, evident by Foggy’s inquisitive tapping on the table, and the movement of his hair indicating that the other man looks at him in growing worry.

“Could I be a good father?” 

Matt whispers it, asks it in a small voice. His coffee grows cold and Foggy immediately straightens. 

“Yeah,” he says, like it's the most obvious thing there is. “You’ll be perfect, Matt.” 

Matt listens and—his heart is steady, he smells like his regular pineneedle cologne. Matt concentrates, jaw set, manually going through every and all tell and it all comes blank. Foggy isn’t lying.

Matt swallows, his throat dry.

“How do you know that?” he asks, clenching and unclenching his fist.

“Because you’re doing all _ this, _ hello?” Matt hears Foggy spread his arms to encompass whatever all _ This _ is. It appears to be the table they share.

“‘This’?”

“Being concerned about whether or not you’re perfect daddy material in the first place.” Foggy says matter-of-factly, and then Matt hears him make a small _ ‘eugh’ _under his breath. “Okay, maybe not the best choice of words but you get what I mean. The fact you’re so wound up if you’re good enough is a good sign. You’re worried about the kid’s welfare and that’s a sign of any great parent.” 

Well, okay, _ sure. _But that’s—

“That’s the bare minimum.” Matt mutters. And that isn’t _ good _ enough.

Foggy scoffs, and the man rolls his_ head _ as he rolls his eyes. “How much money did you dish out on preparing for this kid?”

Matt’s cringe is answer enough.

“_Exactly,_” Foggy says, like it’s some _ eureka! _ moment. “If you didn’t care you wouldn’t run yourself so dry. Would you say your number one priority is your son?”

The shift to Lawyer Mode in Foggy’s speech is almost comical, and it does bring a small quirk to Matt’s lips. Foggy saying_ your son _ in relation to him is still so uncanny, like Matt’s some imposter. 

“Yes,” Matt answers, truthfully.

“_Good parent,_” Foggy says, “would you also say you’re gonna give it your all?”

He has to, it’s his kid. “Yes.” 

“Gonna protect your son? Gonna make sure he’s loved and cherished?”

Is he in an interrogation room?

“Yes,” Matt answers with a sigh. God, is he going to be one of _ those _parents, with a fucking leash? He might. He actually might.

“See?” Foggy asks and Matt doesn’t have the energy to make a blind joke. “Perfect. Dad. Material.”

“Foggy,” Matt might be pleading, and he isn’t exactly for what, specifically. He slumps in his seat, removing his glasses so he can rub at his eyes and face.

“Foggy,” he repeats, head bowed. “I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared.” 

He confesses like he’s at the executioner's block, with his voice breaking.

“I could ruin this kid’s life.” He says, gripping at his hair as he leans upon his elbows. “I could screw up. So _ easily. _ ”

And maybe it's a good thing he’s worrying about such a possibility in the first place, to be so aware of such a probable outcome. And thinking about such a fallout resulting from inept parenting is leaving him to break out in hives, he’s gonna shake himself apart.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Fogs,” he says, not caring for that line of desperation in his tone. He must look like a madman, his hair can’t be well-kept, and his hands are now splayed in front of him in a powerless signal, his eyes wide. “I really, really _ don’t know.” _

Articles, blog-posts and podcasts can only get him so far. He knows nothing can _ really _ prepare him for the real thing, and that’s hardly comforting. 

(And he has no one to fully fall back on. Foggy’s the uncle in this, not the parent, and Matt will not solicit further than he already has from the man. He won’t run the risk of—fatiguing the man out so that Foggy leaves him in a ditch. He can’t. He can’t be alone in this. ) 

“Its normal to be scared shitless, Matt.” Foggy says, slowly, leaning forward so that tentatively grabs hold of one of Matt’s hands. “He’s a baby. Babies are scary.”

Matt focuses all he has on their conjoined hands. He hadn’t realized he was trembling. “Is this supposed to be helpful?” He asks, dryly, energy sapped from him so thoroughly. He'll blame that for showing such blatant weakness in front of the other man. Ridiculous. 

“Shut up. Listen, you’ve been willing to take care of this kid since the very moment you knew of his existence. You’ve decked out your place in baby gear. You called me in two in the morning to ask if I couldn’t get you a bottle warmer.” Foggy rubs a thumb over Matt’s knuckles. “Which, by the way, could you not have your baby epiphanies in the wee hours of the night? Some of us sleep, you know.”

Well, at least that gets a laugh out of Matt. A single bark of laughter. “You’re Uncle Foggy, aren’t you? Waking you up in the wee hours is part of the job description.”

Foggy scoffs, and Matt hears him wrinkle his nose. Their hands are still joined, his anchor in this lessening storm. 

“Listen, Matty. And listen close,” Foggy says, suddenly so serious, the audio of him, the smell of him, mirroring likewise. Matt didn't know people could _smell_ serious. “You’re going to be great. You’re going to give this kid a great childhood. There’s nothing you can’t do that single parents haven’t done already.” A tilt of the head, then: “Is this a blindness thing? People giving you trouble over that?”

Another small laugh, though infinitely smaller and more tired. “No, not entirely.” He shifts in his seat. “I just—” 

He can’t rightly finish what he wants to say, unsure of the words. He doesn’t want to be alone. Not in this, like walking aimlessly in a maze without his hearing or smell or tactile senses. He feels like a boy again. 

“You’ll help, right?” 

His voice is so quiet, and he thinks he may have to repeat it for Foggy to hear.

“‘Course I would. I’m an _ uncle._”

And God, he really does wear that title with honour.

He thanks God, not for the first time nor the last, for Franklin “Foggy” Nelson. 

* * *

When he holds his child, _ his son_, in his hands for the first time, he cries.

Throat tight, he feels his Adam’s apple bob up and down, and he needs to blink rapidly on the onset of wetness in his eyes.

His boy, his son, is warm and wet and _ small _ in his arms. Cradled against his chest and wrapped in blankets, his wailing is deafening and Matt thinks, _ he must have healthy lungs. _

Matt himself doesn’t cry like his son (he _ still _ hasn’t entirely wrapped his head around that. His son), he doesn’t have tears _ streaming _down his cheeks, but he feels a slow wetness make itself apparent. He’s quiet with hiccups, his son’s bawling making it up for the both of them. 

“He’s gonna look like you, Matt,” Mary says with a raspy voice, clearly exhausted to the bone and laying in as a drained heap in the hospital bed. Matt can smell the sweat that sticks to her, the smell of blood, vaginal fluids, amniotic fluids, urine and breast milk from his son’s birth still heavy and persistent in the air, and he doesn’t need to have enhanced senses to smell it. It’s weighty and everywhere and forces itself into his nose—but it's not rancid or sick.

Her labour took nine hours, and Matt felt as though he could have fainted when the smell of—_birth _ grew stronger. Something _ deep _ and damp_, _ almost vaguely familiar, and he knew his son was coming into the world at that moment. 

_ Copper, salt, fish and bleach, _ if he had to name it, and that’s definitely a statement he never thought he’d have to think about in earnest. 

He knows physically his body isn’t strained, not at all like Mary’s, but emotionally—having to wait outside the delivery room had been _ torture. _He created a ditch in the area he paced back and forth at, he’s sure. He could have eaten his fingers in nail-biting anticipation. 

His son is wriggling, crying, and when Matt raises a hand to lightly trace trembling fingers across his boy’s cheek, he’s soft. Matt feels himself choke. _ This is a miracle. _

“He’s got a cute nose,” Mary says, and Matt nods when he charts the roundness of said nose. “He’s got some hair on his head too. It’s brown.”

His son is so real and tangible and settled like cloud in his arms, and this is actually happening. After nine months with his boy practically having an ethereal quality to him, he’s here. Here, in Matt’s arms. Crying and making a mess but in his arms and so, so _ real. _

He’s a father. He has a son. 

“What’s gonna be his name, Matt?” Mary whispers.

How many hours had he been awake thinking about just that? How many ideas had Foggy and Mary suggested? Countless, a constant thought, a distraction Foggy needed to snap him out of at times.

“Peter,” Matt had settled on, a whisper of something so undeniably precious. The audible admission of his son’s name, with the boy in his arms, makes the two of them the only people in the world. “Peter Benjamin Murdock.” 

_ Peter, _ when the Church was founded by Christ, he chose Saint Peter as His Rock. 

Peter.

_ His son, _ and he doesn’t know how he ever thought he wouldn’t get used to that. His boy, his son, and Matt now understands completely the term _ unconditional love. _So nebulous that term was, entirely absurd and dreadfully preposterous, reserved only for romantics with rose-tinted glasses that serves only to fog up rational thought. But Peter is in his arms, _his kid, his son, _and Matt is now a father and he—he understands. He understands. 

* * *

_ "And tonight: Blind lawyer Matthew Michael Murdock drove a pregnant Mary Fitzpatrick to the hospital when she went into labour. Yes, you heard that right: _ blind_, and drove. Mr. Murdock has no light reception and has been legally blind, and therefore unfit to drive a vehicle, since he was nine. You might be wondering: how was his drive possible? Well, it involves six traffic accidents, and stealing a convertible. _

_ “Mr. Murdock ran two red lights, skidded onto the sidewalk, nearly hitting pedestrians and a street lamp, and narrowly missed other moving vehicles. When pressed, Mr. Murdock said only three things: that he's memorized the route to the hospital awaiting the birth, and when Ms. Fitzpatrick went into labour he couldn't wait for an ambulance and therefore took matters into his own hands, and that he has very good hearing and reflexes. _

_ “ _ Truly_, a miraculous feat, and one with no injuries, but hefty damages. However, no one has come forward to press charges against Mr. Murdock, especially after learning about the context. Ms. Fitzpatrick was Mr. Murdock's surrogate, and at 11:32 PM, gave birth to a healthy baby boy, his son Peter Benjamin Murdock. He has since returned the convertible to its rightful owner, and has declined further comment. Ms. Fitzpatrick reportedly doesn't even remember the event." _

"I want you to know I recorded that news broadcast about your Crazy Taxi episode, for when your kid gets older and can see what an absolute fucking maniac you were."

"Foggy."

"_Please _ never drive me anywhere, even if I'm dying."

"No promises."

* * *

She told him, _ Never contact me again, _ but leaves with a kiss on the cheek.

She shook her head and gave an exasperated _ ‘no’ _when he asked her to stay one last time, just to breastfeed. 

"Welcome to fatherhood, Matty." She said. She left to Texas, and he didn’t see her off at the airport. He was too busy making baby formula in the kitchen.

And that was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm literally like, the least qualified person to write this fic, lol. What the hell is an Avengers? What do you mean there’s like 34347593845 superhero movies, and they’re all connected? There's other Marvel movies other than Spiderverse? There's more than one season of Daredevil?
> 
> Honestly. But hey, I'm peripherally aware of other Marvel stories, I know I like Spider-Man and Daredevil the most as characters, and my favourite relationships to read/write are familial ones. I watched Homecoming and was like "Tony Stark who? I don't know her. Matthew Murdock? Yes."
> 
> If all goes well this will very loosely follow the events of Homecoming. If anyone has prompts for specific father son goodness between Matt and Peter, please feel free to say so!
> 
> I'm can't say how long this will be, or promise any sort of updating schedule. Chapters will be uploaded when they're ready. Each chapter will be at least 10k words long.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed.


	2. Chapter 2

“Oh my God,” Foggy says, reverence as though he stands before a radiant deity. “_Oh my God._”

His whisper is strained with awe, hands out-stretched like before an idol of worship. Matt can hear the way his breath halts with a small gasp of adoration, not dissimilar to the sounds he makes when he likes to think he attempts “stealth” to watch cat videos at work. 

Peter lays wrapped in a cocoon of a blanket, bundled in the most comforting burrito Matt could manage while following a video tutorial, done with as much attention and care that he has when defending a client in court. The cloth is one of cotton, and Matt feels like he holds an overgrown marshmallow in his arms. An overgrown, and most perfect and most precious marshmallow. Only four days old and already the most important thing that’s ever graced Matt’s entire existence. Already so accomplished at mere days of living, already so thoroughly the sun Matt orbits around. 

Peter’s heartbeat is quick; 140-160 beats per minute, as Matt has counted and has been mesmerized upon, on very second, on very breath. _ Healthy_. A rhythm so enchanting, and Matt doesn’t know how he’ll ever retreat back to music when he’s already heard the most stunning symphony. He knows there will be nothing that hypnotizes him so completely, like a beacon that holds every answer in the universe. 

God, he has _ his son _ in his arms. The mere thought has kept his constant smile on his face, feeling as though he’s the one swaddled in warm and all encompassing blankets. It’s so right. It feels _ so right. _The puzzle pieces have come together and the image couldn’t be clearer. 

“_Oh my God,_” Foggy breathes. “Matt. Matt, he’s holding my finger. His hands are so _ small, _ Matt, oh my God.”

The man _ squeals. _There’s no other word for it, Foggy makes a high-pitched noise of pure delight and it's absolutely a squeal. 

Peter, in turn, does his occasional impromptu hand and foot flail, accompanied by his signature _ ‘bah,’ _and other such cultured baby-talk.

Foggy is beside himself. Like_ ‘melting into a pile of goo,’ _ beside himself. 

And Matt finds himself snickering, the bundle in his arms too beautiful for words and Matt never knew himself to be such an unbridled sap. He never _ could _ be a sap. A weakness that had thought to have been, quite literally, beaten out of him. Scabbed over as nothing more than an ugly mark but a staunch reminder of how to become stronger, the ultimate symbol of self-reliance and self-defense. To be better. So much better. 

But it’s like a second skin when acting like the world’s biggest cheese ball. He hasn’t cried like he did when Peter was born since—Since. He can’t remember. Maybe he’s never cried like that in his life. Tears of elation and the literal inability to stop smiling like an idiot. He can't, quite literally, recall a time when he ever felt _ good _ crying. The mere association of the two, _ good _ and _ crying_, like the piecing together of complete opposites, just a complete absurdity.

Matt isn't an alien to human emotions (despite what Foggy may claim), he knows people cry when they're overwhelmed by happiness. But not him. Never him. Crying as a whole was supposed to have also been beaten from him, a weakness culled. Another scab hidden and forgotten about but a lesson all the same.

(There isn't even a phantom voice telling him he's no longer a child and needs to do better, drowned out by his son's heartbeat.)

The previous, ever mounting anxiety pre-birth that threaten to suffocate him to death has all been forgotten entirely. His son will practically cure every and all ailment in him if he’s this good as a relaxant. There needs to be a way to capture that smell—that smell of one’s newborn. So deeply familiar and immensely satisfying, one without words and one that Matt can’t find an adequate mirror of. Vanilla? Citrus? Almost, but never quite the same. Always familiar, and not the lotion or baby wipes.

Get a hold of that smell and sell it, and Matt would be a billionaire in no time.

It should be frustrating, with his enhanced senses, to not be able to pinpoint an exact mimic to embody it. But he quite literally couldn’t care less. The smell fills his apartment and he could sit and bathe in it indefinitely. 

He hasn’t been able to sleep properly since Peter’s birth (_‘babies need to be fed every two-to-three hours,’ _ says all the articles and the nurses) and he literally has never been so energized and with such solid purpose in his life. And he can say that with confidence. 

Peter makes a ‘_brrp,_’ turning his head and Matt can feel him nuzzling into his father’s chest, and Foggy makes another sound of unfiltered delight. Matt can practically smell the serotonin firing off in the other man's brain. 

Peter symbolizes everything good and _ of course _ he's an accident. Good things that happen in Matt's life always are and always will be accidents that shouldn’t happen to him in the first place, and he'll hold onto all of it with all the determination he has to offer.

He's exhausted to the bone like any new parent and he's never felt better.

(He doesn’t know how this could ever be a weakness. Not with how his son feels in his arms.)

At this point, the calendar’s changed. As far as Matt’s concerned, time has been _ ‘Before Peter’s Birth’ _ and _ ‘After Peter’s Birth,’ _ because he feels—so, so _ good. _ So, so _ right._

"He likes you, obviously." Matt says, and he can hear the way Foggy lightly and carefully rubs his thumb across the boy’s tiny hand. “How’s it feel, Fogs?” Matt asks.

A sifting of hair; Foggy nods. “T’is the greatest honour, sire.” Slight movement; Foggy shifts on his feet minutely, his finger still in Peter’s grasp. “Still can’t believe you got a kid. Like an actual kid that’s right here and in your arms. You’re a _ dad, _Matty!”

There’s awe in that voice, and Matt’s learned not to become dispirited by such a tone. Foggy isn’t skeptical in his abilities to parent, as reassured by Foggy’s insistence to cheerlead whenever he is able. He’s stupefied and dazzled and Matt can hardly blame the man’s difficulties on fully wrapping his head around the entire situation. Matt had been an alien in his own skin from the moment he knew of the pregnancy to Peter’s birth. 

He is a whole dad. Like saying he’s stepped on the moon and infinitely more rewarding.

“Really? Hadn’t noticed.” Matt teases, re-establishing his hold on Peter just ever so slightly when the infant squirms in a small burst before settling again.

“Uh-huh,” more nodding from Foggy. “A father. A parent. Dadtron 1000. You got a mini-you and I got a nephew.” Then, like taken aback from his own statement, Matt hears Foggy straighten. “_A nephew!_” He whispers to himself.

Flabbergasted, he is, and Matt understands. He hums as Foggy needs a moment to comprehend the sudden realization as if it were a completely new bombshell. Then Foggy giggles, and Matt hears the man rub at his face to collect himself, his hand freed from Peter’s iron-grip. 

The redirection of Foggy’s breath, closer, but lower, means the man leans forward towards Peter. His face hovers at a comfortable distance, air displacement signalling that he waves down at the boy after readjusting his hair so it doesn’t tickle the infant. Peter has squinted his eyes open for the first time since this entire exchange.

(_Light grey eyes, that will most likely turn into a rich dark brown when he nears his first birthday, matching his hair and Matt’s own bronze. Mary said she had dark eyes, a trait his son will follow, he’s certain._) 

“Hey-a Petey. I’m Uncle Foggy.” Foggy whispers.

Peter responds with a characteristic baby murmur. 

A sudden rustling of clothing; Foggy has composed himself back to a tall stance, posed as if a dignified king. “He totally recognizes me now. He’s imprinted!”

“Soon he’ll know voice commands.” Matt says.

Foggy snorts, shifting, before becoming completely and suddenly serious.

“Can I hold him?” He asks. “He’ll be in safe hands, I promise. I got a PhD in holding precious cute things like puppies and babies. You can count on me, bud.” 

Matt’s reflex is instant and probably really laughable. In fact, he knows it's laughable; he turns his body just a fraction, his arms curling around his son as if Foggy wishes to whisk him away entirely. 

Microscopic as Matt’s impromptu shielding was, it’s still completely absurd when he’s given clear enough mind from the haze of parental vigilance.

God, yeah, he’s gonna have a leash on this kid. He can’t escape that part of himself anymore.

“I got your word you’re not gonna punt my kid like a football?” Matt says with a tilt of the head.

“Matty, I don’t even know how to punt a regular football.”

“Well, write me down as convinced.” 

Matt motions with his head for the man to come closer, and Foggy closes the bridge so that Matt feels the heat radiating off him through both their clothes. Foggy brushes his hands on Matt’s own to let him know where they are, to establish the safest route of baby acquisitioning. He ensures that little distance is covered between the two of them, the hands of the two working as a stable bedrock as Peter shifts like any infant but otherwise one with no complaints.

He doesn’t hand Peter off completely; when cradled against Foggy’s chest Matt still positions his own hands just beneath, gracing the softness of Peter’s blanket. Like Peter is in immediate danger of falling, even though he can hear and has felt how Foggy’s arms are nestled around his son appropriately.

He can be a helicopter parent, Peter’s still an _ infant. _ It’s fine.

Matt can hear Foggy’s elation in his _ heart. _ He grins when Foggy makes an _ ‘aww’ _ing, sound, more high-pitched than Matt thought Foggy was even capable of.

“Matty. Matt. _ Matthew._” Foggy says, _ squeals, _ again! “I’m about to cry. Really, I’m about to cry I’m not joking.” 

He really, really is. Matt doesn’t needed heightened senses to hear that characteristic hitch in his voice.

Matt wants to tease in full, some line about his kid suddenly being onions or something equally silly, but there’s—a sound. A sound he does need his heightened senses to hear, and his brows furrow as he suddenly hones in on it.

It’s coming from Peter. It’s coming from Peter’s stomach, specifically.

It’s a gurgle that signals the oncoming advent of a detonation that has Foggy right in the blast radius.

“Foggy—” He tries to warn, but it’s all for naught.

He means to take his kid as gently he is able but also as promptly as he is able; it ends halfway but not far enough, the distance too close and Peter facing Foggy’s direction fully. 

Matt cringes in earnest when he hears the spewing of baby vomit that lands right on Foggy’s shirt. His_ new _ shirt. Something plaid but now spotted in the worst way possible. Foggy reels as expected, a grimace painted on his face by how Matt can hear his skin fold and the sound of disgust the man emits.

Peter, of course, doesn’t act like someone who just regurgitated his lunch onto his uncle. As soon as he gives Foggy a new paint job, he gives himself a self-satisfied _ ‘bah.’ _

“_Peter..._” Matt says as heavily as one can when accepting such a defeat. He re-settles his son against him, more contented baby-babbles that he knows will sooner or later turn to fussing and crying for another bottle. 

Matt winces as he hears droplets of Peter’s art project hit the floor. Foggy’s standing as though shell shocked. He probably actually is.

"Oh my God," Foggy starts, sounding queasy himself, and Matt thinks he might just somersault out of the window if Foggy thinks of adding more to the mess. "That fucking stinks."

The smell of curdled milk filters between them. For Foggy, the smell will be gone once Matt cleans it. For Matt, it’ll linger for the rest of the day because he’ll become too apathetic to continue to dedicate elbow-grease to get rid of it before then.

"Language," Matt says half-heartedly, wiping at Peter’s mouth with his shirt sleeve.

Foggy scoffs, hands splayed out in the air as if scared he’ll dirty them if he places them on his hips, despite the vomit being localized on his chest and downwards. "He's zero years old, Matt, he won't remember this."

Matt’s turn to scoff, as he walks towards the changing table a few paces behind him. “For your sake, let’s hope he doesn’t. You should take your shirt off in the bathroom; I’ll clean it for you.”

“Your kid’s got talent, Matt. You could teach him to weaponize that, nothing says _ ‘fuck off’ _like projectile vomiting.” Foggy says with a good humoured laugh at the end. Matt hears the man turn and waddle towards the bathroom. 

"_Language,_” Matt calls out after him, but with no heat. 

* * *

Seventy. It’s a bad number.

Peter wiggles and squirms because he’s an infant and doesn’t understand it would be easier for everyone if he stayed still when his diapers needed to be changed.

"That fucking stinks." Foggy says, because he enjoys being unhelpful. 

"Language," Matt says, using the baby wipes. 

"_Zero years old,_" Foggy says, because he wants Matt’s son to grow up to be a heathen, but at the very least has the manners to toss a clean diaper for Matt to use.

* * *

There is a grand total of three (3) people in the entirety of Matt’s life that he feels it of absolute importance that know of Peter. 

Foggy, of course, wormed so perfectly into Matt’s heart with such efficiency it should honestly be frightening. Well, it _ is _ frightening; raw and true, and reminiscing back upon the moment Matt bared his fears to the man on his own abilities as a parent leaves him wanting to pull his teeth out. 

Foggy’s too good for him, that much is undeniable, and telling him of Peter would never be a mistake. He may have needed to drink to bring forth his courage to tell the man, but it was never a mere slip of the tongue.

And Father Lantom is the only man in the world that Matt can call _ 'Father' _ and have it not always mean the clerical title. 

Matt's been in and out of too many homes in his youth; inexperienced parents who couldn't cope with a child who screamed in his sleep, inexperienced parents who couldn't cope with a _ blind _ child who screamed in his sleep; those who yelled too much, those that wanted him to drop his boxing, and too many men who were complete strangers telling he should call them _ dad _ and _ father. _Like a punch to the gut at every turn, even if the men in question were only trying to create a connection to the foster kid they welcomed into their homes.

And Matt just simply couldn’t. He already had a dad.

He can recall at least five separate occasions where his younger self snuck out through the window and trekked alone back towards Hell’s Kitchen, back towards St. Agnes and back towards Father Lantom.

(And to Sister Maggie, because she always appeared to have a sixth sense when it came to Matt’s unannounced returns. The first warm embrace to greet him, tight and all encompassing and probably longer than it needed to be, but the first to wane away like a shadow.)

And in those moments wherein the Matt and Lantom simply sat, side by side and Matt never realizing that he unconsciously leaned in to rub shoulders as some non-verbal request for solace, Matt knew he could come to the man no matter the age or subject. He knew it then when Lantom never had any ounce of disappointment or exasperation at Matt’s inability to hold a home, only ever silent acceptance that was never weighty.

He uses the confessional for its actual intended purpose but also because the space is one free of damnation. He knows he can speak freely to Lantom.

_ Matt sits on the wooden bench, and thinks idly of bringing a cloth to wipe down on the forgotten corners of this quiet place; dust continues to accumulate and Matt feels obligated. If only as a small sign of thanks._

_ “Confession was meant to end fifteen minutes ago. Do you actually have a sin to confess, or are you exploiting my kindness?” Lantom drawls, with no malice. _

_ Matt’s speech until then had been trivial, only given as a way to fill the air and to soothe himself in familiarity; 'I haven’t been attending mass, I’ve neglected my prayers'_ _—true, but Lantom can always see through such superficial fluff that only serve as filler._

_ Matt shifts in his seat. He halts the fiddling of his hands once he becomes properly aware that he’s even doing it, and focuses on Lantom’s heartbeat. Steady, obviously. Calming. _

_ Matt licks his lips, and he knows he shouldn’t be nervous, realistically. Lantom is man of guidance, a beacon in the fog that Matt trusts explicitly. _

_ He isn’t able to get the exact words out. Not yet. _

_ “...I’ve had sex before marriage?” Is what leaves his mouth because, well, that’s also true. On multiple occasions._

_ Lantom snorts. “Unless you’ve accidentally made someone pregnant, I don’t think God can fault you too harshly, considering you’re only in your twenties.” He says dryly, the tone of a man whose long since resigned himself to the inevitable promiscuity of some young adults._

_ And there it is: the perfect segway, and Matt need not speak any more words because the priest has connected the dots, even if it is unintentional. _

_ Matt’s silence is answer enough. A too long stretch of quiet and suddenly the air becomes awkward. He hears Lantom straighten, him blink, and Matt allows himself at least _ some _ level of pride that this might be the first time he’s actually surprised the guy._

_ “...Ah.” Lantom says, understanding the true nature of Matt’s visit. “Perhaps you should have vowed chastity.” Maybe. A shuffling of clothing accompanied with a sigh indicates Lantom stands from his seat. “Come, now, let us walk. Also, you don’t need the confessional to simply talk, you know.”_

_ “How else I am going to force you to listen to me,” Matt smirks, despite the nerves that exist within him, rattling like a bunch of bees in a bottle. He lifts himself to follow the priest._

_ Matt trusts Lantom absolutely, which is why he was the person Matt went to first and immediately after Mary’s refusal to marry him. _

_ “Clearly _ you’re _ meant to have this child, but not her.” Lantom says, after Matt unloads his woes on the situation and Lantom soothes that ever-present desperate wish to have her marry him so they can share the responsibility. _

_ “And you will not have to face this alone, Matthew.” Lantom says, and Matt believes him. The priest's hand stationed on his shoulder one of relief, and of course Lantom picked up on Matt's dread of being alone, even when he didn't verbally admit it._

_ “You have the church. And you know where to find me.” Lantom continues._

_ And because Matt is incorrigible: “The confessional?” _

_ Is Lantom rolling his eyes? Matt is sure he is when he sighs with a smile and says, “Only for you.” _

_ He cleans the confessional the night after, attentive to every and all detail._

(And the third person is his dad. Peter’s grandfather. He can imagine his father’s weathered features so perfectly, his expression of surprise, amusement and excitement at the news of his son having a child, cascaded all together in the most dramatic of expressions. He would have ruffled Matt’s hair like he had when he was a boy. He would have pulled Matt into a back-breaking embrace. He would have cried like Matt had done.

The image of his dad holding Peter in a small bundle, dwarfed almost comically in his arms, is one that has Matt’s throat go tight. He needs to stop himself and breathe deeply, breath becoming ragged, and will the wetness of his eyes not to spill over to his cheeks. Jack Murdock should have been alive to witness his grandson’s birth. Peter should have been able to meet his grandfather.

The headstone bearing his father’s name is an adequate enough gateway to speak with him. The graveyard is always quiet, the space always as though separate from the world around it. A transcendental plane, and Matt doesn’t believe in ghosts that haunt and have people twist their heads a full 360. But he speaks with his father, and he knows he listens.

He stood before his father’s grave countless times before. It’s a public space but intimate to him alone, its theirs—Matt and his father’s—place only. It is where Matt can comfortably weep, speak and confess without any sense of shame. It is where he read out his acceptance letter from Columbia, it is where he announced he would become a father first. 

_ “I’m going to have a kid, Dad,” _ Matt had said, voice hoarse. The headstone stood as it always did, the wind a phantom of an embrace, and he had cried until he could barely stand.)

* * *

It’s Foggy who actually brings it up and it’s Foggy who laughs at him when he purchases and wears the item. 

The shoulder slings are padded, likewise is the ‘pack’ interior, made of cotton and “_ergonomic positioning for healthy infant development,_” as described by the store clerk. Whatever that means. A simple stark grey and the baby carrier certainly does what its name says: it carries Peter comfortably against Matt’s chest.

Which appears to be infinitely amusing to Foggy, if his wheezing is anything to go by.

“Enjoying yourself?” Matt asks, a brow quirked, hands still upon Peter through his carrier, the instinctual need to support his son still prevalent. He rubs a hand up and down upon the infant’s back, his son’s innate ability to spontaneously fall asleep having reared its head.

“_Oh,_” Foggy gasps, a soft slap of skin meaning the man brings his hands to cup at either side of his face. God, he’s _ cooing. _ “Oh, you two are so _ cute_.”

They make a good pair, Peter the world’s cutest bundle and Matt a close second. The thrum of his son’s heartbeat vibrates against Matt’s chest like a gentle tapping, and Matt already thinks he’ll gravitate towards this carrier for the proximity more so than the fact it frees his hands.

“You are,” Foggy starts, then huffs like he needs to collect himself. “You are DILF status, my friend.”

“Don’t ever speak to me again.” Matt says flatly, but deliberately doesn't deny his friend's assertion.

Oh, and Foggy thinks _ that _ is comedy gold.

“Oh, stay still, stay still.” Foggy rustles and sifts, before he finds what he’s looking for. The sound of clicking against a screen means Foggy has procured his phone. “I gotta take a pic. Petey has gotta see this when he’s older, alright?” 

A milestone, certainly, fitting a baby carrier on his chest in his apartment wearing sweats.

Matt spreads his arm in pose, and hears a _ click _ in Foggy’s direction. 

* * *

“Matthew.” Lantom greets warmly, before Matt hears him shift, stepping forward, his clothes bunching onto his front; the man leans forward slightly as he focuses on the bundle that sits upon Matt's chest. “And _ Peter._” He says, so unabashed in his affection it should be illegal.

“The man, the myth, the legend himself.” Matt says, the weight on his chest bouncing slightly as Peter jostles in his harness. 

He has a stroller. A simple single seater from the treasure trove that is Walmart. It functions as it should, and was bought after listening to an article that were tips on traveling with babies for blind parents and then remembering suddenly that _ Oh shit I don't have a stroller?_

Too engrossed in adapting his apartment to become baby proof he totally forgot that his kid needs to go _ outside_.

He has full confidence in his abilities to navigate with a stroller, regardless of his senses, as already achieved by many other visually impaired parents. But this carrier is. Nicer.

On two separate occasions a podcast mentioned eye contact being important for an infant's development and the general bonding experience. Instead of hoping he gets his eyeline at the correct level, he'll focus more on physical intimacy, as told by various articles about blind parenthood; he already knew that on an instinctual level, and hardly needed to actually be told it. He'll easily be able to emphasize that closeness with a baby carrier, with Peter snuggled against his chest.

With Peter's heartbeat so close against his own, the scent of his son nearer to Matt's nose and sprinkling softly throughout the air around him, rousing only tranquility like he sits before a cozy campfire—and Matt knows he prefers the carrier, considerably. Having his hands free and the full ability of his cane is only a superficial bonus.

He has gotten _ looks _ during his trek towards the church. And he knew Foggy spoke truth (_pride is a sin, _ he thinks lazily), but his cheeks still blossomed a thin red at overhearing and sensing both men and women _ oogle_.

(Does his kid make it look like he has his life together? Peter is an excellent liar.)

“So how has your son been treating you, then?” Lantom asks, as Peter gives a _ ‘mah.'_

“Determined to work me to the bone. He has very high standards.” Matt responds. 

_ Parenting is the greatest but most rewarding challenge of them all, _ says literally every text about parenting ever. Making bottles and proficiently changing diapers is an art form one needs constant practice at to master.

“Only the best, I’m sure, for such a lovely boy.” Lantom says, tilting his head as Peter makes a small noise. “You are doing well?” 

“Yes, and not to be completely corny but—he’s a blessing, Father.”

How long ago would've it been when he would have turned his nose at such sentiment? Think it more likely for him to break his fingers than say such a thing?

Not very long ago.

“The love that a parent has towards their child is one that should always be declared proudly.” Lantom muses. “Even if it’s corny.”

Matt shares a smile with the man, one that comes easily and naturally. He ducks his head, focusing on how Peter nuzzles his face against Matt's chest through the delicate cotton lining of the carrier. He feels the pliable squish of his boy's cheeks, the stub of his small nose, and Matt automatically raises a hand to drift his fingers gently over the crown of Peter's head.

_ Apricot, rose, orange and vanilla; _ whoever made this baby lotion needs a raise. Peter's combined amalgamation—his scent, his feeling, so close Matt's heart in every aspect, and he may as well be standing in field of blossoming flowers with the sun gently caressing his skin.

(_God, is this kid making him a poet? Unbelievable._)

He bounces on the heels of his feet, both to give Peter a rock but also an attempt to collect his words; there is a reason he's dressed Peter in white. A white gown he's put to the side from Peter's other clothes so he _ knows _ he has the right garment. Soft like the rest, with white linen but unique for this.

(Purity and innocence, the traditional colour.)

Turns out Matt won't need to think, because Lantom obviously _ knows._

“Out with it then, Matthew, I have a congregation to run.” he says, dry but good humoured.

Matt levels his gaze at Lantom's direction, and by the way the air moves when Lantom straightens, he must have been very close to direct eye contact. 

He licks his lips. “I’ve come to ask if you could baptize Peter, Father.” 

_ To be cleansed of original sin, _a second birth, a spiritual dawn. 

Matt cannot profess to being a textbook definition of a _Good Catholic Boy. _He knows that. He rarely even says grace. He doesn't even plan on raising Peter with the Church as a mainstay. He'll allow Peter the choice, obviously, whether or not he wishes to come with his father to Mass on Sundays. On the occasion when Matt actually goes to Mass on Sundays.

This feels like—not an obligation, not exactly. Lantom would never pressure him into this action. And perhaps that's the very reason Matt _ wants _ it. 

Matt was not baptized as an infant, but he was Catholic before his blindness and before his dad died. And he _ was _ baptized; after his blindness, after his dad died. 

_ A second birth. _It was Lantom who had done it. And when he had breached the surface of the water after being submerged, filling his lungs with wobbly breaths of the crisp air like ice in his lungs, his body felt new, his mind felt brighter, his senses understood.

Matt still hasn't felt clarity like that since. Everything focused with an uncluttered lucidity where everything just came together like clockwork; flawless in tandem, and Matt had felt the weight on him lessen.

Peter may not remember the actual event itself when he grows older, but it'll give him the foundation he needs if he ever wishes to walk with the Church.

Lantom's smile feels warm.

“Of course, Matthew. It would be my honour.” 

  
  
~

“I baptise you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

_Matthew 28:19, _ Matt automatically recites, his teachings in memorizing and reciting passages from his time at St. Agnes a lasting thing.

He holds Peter gingerly near his chest, but extended enough for his head to be above the baptismal font. The font is smooth on its surface, only small indents present of the glazed wood. The pedestal stands with a basin that holds three sides: a reminder of the Holy Trinity.

Matt hears the fall of a small spray of water, as it leaves the metal cup Lantom holds. The water is poured delicately onto Peter's forehead, angled closely so little distance is traveled as the liquid cascades over to the curve of Peter's head instead of his face.

Other than Peter flailing like any infant, he makes no complaints. The remaining water clinging onto the boy's head drop off as droplets back into the pool below, the rebounding of water rejoining it's kin is a choir. The echoing if the ripples emphasizes the interior of the basin; three sides, the Trinity, and Peter sits in the middle as an honoured guest.

“We pray for this child: set him free from original sin, make him a temple of your glory, and send your Holy Spirit to dwell with him. Through Christ our Lord.”

Lantom's words are easily said and clearly practiced over years of doing such a celebration. His words settle like the presence of an old friend, one Matt knows from his youth when Lantom did the same for him.

Only a portion of Peter's head is made wet of the water, but he—feels clean. _ Bright. _ Bathed through this act, already cherished and made blessed. This ceremony includes only the three of them, quiet in actuality but uproarious in the most tender way for Matt. 

His heart grows, practically three times its size and Matt is overcome with raw endearment. It would make past him _ nauseous. _It's almost scary it doesn't now.

Matt brings his son closer to his chest, cradling him.

"Thank you, Father.” he says, something weighty in his voice, bared in his sincerity.

“Thank _ you, _Matthew.” Lantom says, and Matt hears the priest dip his head in a small bow.

Lantom doesn't clarify _ what _ he thanks Matt for; but he knows Lantom shows his congratulations on Matt's fatherhood and Peter's veneration.

He's proud, and Matt is likewise.

* * *

A book is laid down on the coffee table with a soft _ thunk_, and opened with the crinkling of plastic; Foggy lays down a photo album, seated across from Matt, and Peter sits on Matt's lap with a bottle.

"So," Foggy starts, clapping and rubbing his hands together. "The first picture is you standing over that crib like you just gave birth to Jesus. The second one is you holding Petey when you brought him home for the first time. The third is you changing his diapers—it's you fitting a clean one on him—fourth is you feeding him, fifth is me feeding him, and sixth is you with that baby backpack."

An apt repository, or even more so—the tone of clear enthusiasm in Foggy's voice is infectious.

Foggy has the courtesy to always notify him when or after he's taken a picture, though Matt always picks up on the _ click_. Accumulating photographs of, and he quotes, _ 'that cute family shit,' _ always said to be expressly for Peter, but Matt suspects Foggy is just a sentimental sap. Not that he minds. Too much.

"And how did my photo come out?" Matt asks, readjusting his grip on Peter to keep him seated up straight as he suckles.

Matt refers to the picture of Foggy feeding Peter, one Foggy practically ordered Matt to do.

(_ "Little lower, bro."_

_ "Good?"_

_ "Angle the phone forward a little—yeah, yeah, there. If it helps any, it can't be worse than your last two, yeah?"_

_ Click._

_ "The things I do for you," Matt makes sure to lower his head so Foggy can see his eye roll behind his glasses, as he flips the phone to show him the screen._

_ "Getting better, Matty. Soon you'll be working for National Geographic." _)

"You're good at Dutch Angles, you know that? A real pro."

"Finally, someone who recognizes my artistic genius." Matt scoffs.

"Always here for ya." Matt hears Foggy shuffle in his seat, his hair jostling in a way that indicates the man looks around. "Hey, where's your Braille labeler?" 

Matt motions to his bedroom with his head. "Nightstand on the right, first drawer."

"Gotcha," Foggy says, as he gets up and Matt hears him step away. "I'm gonna label the shit outta your photo album."

Matt sighs, deliberately loud and dramatic, "Lang—"

"_Language, _ I know, I know, Mother Teresa I hear ya. Sheesh."

Matt smiles, and Foggy returns only a moment later, the dip of the couch happening just as Peter finishes his bottle. Matt leans forward to relinquish the bottle onto the table, and Peter flaunts his ability to just fall asleep on command. Matt hears the boy's eyelids close, and feels the compression of his fatty cheek as Peter slumps over and making his father his pillow.

He hears Foggy diligently go to work. The clicking of the labeler, the specific distance of the sound and the air displacement brought forth all indicate in what formation the Braille is written; _ Daddy Matty, _ he thinks he hears Foggy write out.

Matt stifles a snort before it comes to fruition, and he leans back against his seat so Peter may have a more comfortable bed.

"Also, hey," Foggy starts then, the whooshing of hair meaning he spares Matt a short glance. "I got you something. Check your email."

"Oh, this doesn't bode well."

"_Trust me, _ Matty." And Matt definitely doesn't trust him.

~

He checks his email later that evening. His screen reader says, "_Dad Jokes 101._"

Dreadfully thoughtful of him, truly.

* * *

Matt gets woken at least three times a night, if he decides to sleep at all. Peter, on the other hand, sleeps twenty hours a day because he's indulgent to the inth degree. 

He slaves in the kitchen to procure enough bottles, using exact measurements and smelling if the mixture is correct, and Peter cries and wails because he's impatient and knows he's the king of this household.

And because Peter is simply a _ barbarian, _he defecates way more often than is necessary because he enjoys forcing his father having to plug his nostrils. He even laughs, on occasion, when Matt is wiping him down.

_ ("Yeah, yeah, laugh it up big guy." _ And the little sadist does.)

Peter has a crib that is meticulously kept and organized, his own castle in his kingdom.

Currently, he lays upon Matt. Matt himself lays upon his bed, supine with Peter settled peacefully on his chest. His son catches up on his twenty hours of beauty sleep, prone and unmoving. 

He's heard that allowing infants to nuzzle against the parent's bare chest promotes healthy bonding, and that is what he is doing, shirtless as he wears sweatpants. Peter sits right between his pectorals, his breath light like whisper and just a tickle. He wears just his nappies, the skin shared between father and son like they share a heart. Peter's heartbeat, liberated from the walls of clothing, flutter against Matt as a gentle hum.

Matt idly traces a hand against Peter's back, before he settles his palm flat against the infant's like a blanket. Careful not to go limp and leave the whole weight of his arm on the boy, he ruminates on the feeling of Peter. 

His son glows—he honestly, and truly, feels like he glows. Shining bright as he lays calmly on his father's chest, breathing steady and free of any worries. And Peter has, well, _ powers: _he successfully tunes out the world for Matt. Matt doesn't even have to ignore it. It's merely the two of them.

It is a freeing, wonderful thing to be affectionate without shame.

* * *

Matt had been fully planning on quitting Landman and Zach, and promptly taking Foggy with him if he was able. But then Mary got pregnant and he was going to have a kid and—he can’t deny good pay when he sees it. He can’t deny reliable income when he sees it. 

It’s like swimming with sharks and shaking hands with a man made of oil but he _ can’t _ be unemployed when he has a newborn. He bares his throat and concedes, a lesser of two evils so that he may have a consistent source of income, to have a solid foundation. 

Matt has savings, a hefty amount that could leave him afloat for years, in all probability. An untouched, but never forgotten, vault of his father’s winnings. He always either refused to acknowledge its existence—almost sacrilegious to think it his to meddle with. Which is preposterous, considering his father literally wrote Matt in his will as the sole heir of the goods—or told himself it was a fall back on the chance he finds himself without a roof over his head. Some obscure, but still ever present safety net that Matt knows he probably still wouldn’t use unless he was literally on his last breath.

No, he won’t use his father’s winnings on himself. Because it’ll be used for something much more important: it will be reserved as Peter’s school fund and nothing less. 

Foggy’s ecstatic when they both get job offers. And why wouldn't he be; getting the internship itself was cause for celebration, getting the _ job, _ so soon after graduating, skipping right over that existential crisis limbo period of being unemployed with your undergrad? God must be smiling upon them, surely.

(Though, it doesn't feel the part for Matt.)

Though, it _ does _ feels the part for Matt to walk into an elevator with Parish Landman. Just the Murdock luck.

Twelve weeks of paternal leave. _ Unpaid, _ obviously. A boon nonetheless, if only to prolong the inevitable return to this den of snakes.

"Congratulations on becoming a father, Murdock."

Landman only spares Matt a glance, before he goes back to scrolling on his phone. Some newfangled model that Matt doesn't know the brand of, by the way the screen sounds when Landman uses it. The smell of the man, the cologne that probably costs more than Matt's rent, has Matt wrinkling his nose at that very pretentious scent which is reminiscent of dog shit. 

But underlying such a concoction is the smell of anticipation, and Matt knows this guy wanted to have Matt jump in surprise at his voice. Expecting Matt to flounder and splutter at the fact it's his boss that shares such proximity with him after taking leave. Probably the only reason he didn't even greet himself, and Landman is terrible at surprises.

He, obviously, doesn't give Landman the satisfaction.

"Thank you, sir." Matt says casually, because sometimes he’s polite but this time he doesn’t want to be fired for telling the man he’s a snob, even if the temptation is there.

The elevator couldn't be going slower, at this rate. Matt can't even feel too much accomplishment at the fact Landman exudes quiet disappointment that he didn't give Matt that predicted heart attack.

"Now imagine my surprise when I heard about your little escapade of a certain stolen Porsche driving your girl to get your kid popped out." Landman finishes typing a text to what Matt imagines is either an important associate or ordering someone to get him coffee, and then he hears the other man lift his head once more for a glance. "How'd you'd manage that?"

_ Through feeling like his heart was in his throat and choking him, and trying to remember every car chase scene he's listened to to try and remember where the fuck the gear shift went, _"With luck, mostly."

With luck, '_mostly'_. For all his senses give him, they don't exactly give him driving lessons, the same way they wouldn't give him flight lessons.

Landman snorts. “It was luck you weren’t arrested on the spot.” 

The floor they both wish to reach isn't even an exorbitant distance but the lift _ drags_. “I know.” Matt says.

“What’d you name your kid?”

“Peter.” 

“_Pe-ter,_” Landman enunciates as if it's a foreign word, and Matt feels distinctly violated. Movement and the sound of a pocket being filled; Landman stashes his phone away and Matt can then feel the man practically sizing him up. Matt pointedly keeps his gaze directed to front of him.

“No ring on your hand.” Landman acknowledges like he expects some juicy tale behind it.

“Because I’m not married. He was carried by a surrogate.” 

“Really wanted a kid that bad, huh.” 

“Yes.” Most would easily pick up the fact Matt wishes this conversation to be at its end with his flat tone, but Landman may as well has been raised in a vat.

“Well, word of the wise, from a father of two: nothing says _ don’t touch that _ like a good cuff on the head.”

And the Landman _ chuckles_, soft with a snort like this a relatable joke for anyone, and, well, maybe Matt _ could _ kill someone.

(He can't, but how tantalizing.)

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Matt says, pacifying his own need to straight up scowl.

Would-be-CPS-case still has the gall to continue this line of thought. “Though I suppose you’ll have to whack at the air a few times before you hit your mark.”

Peter's daycare isn't free, he tells himself. If he can help it, Peter won't have to wear second-hand. He won't need to choose between groceries or paying the heating. He knows he would sacrifice everything for his son, even his dignity, in this place.

The elevator doors open with a _ ding_, thank _ God._

Landman steps to exit before the doors even start to open. “I expect good work from you, Murdock, especially since you took a three month vacation so soon after I hired you.” 

Matt walks out, the ambience of paper being sifted, typing and phone ringings present all at once like a circus. “I'll tell my son to stop being such an attention hog." He says, and promptly absconds.

Working here is going to be test. The most arduous of experiments to see how long it will take Matt to literally just lose it.

He really does hate his boss. And when he gets to his desk and is tasked with defending some company against a wrongful death suit from a low income family, he really does hate his job.

(He's back to creating a vault of files and articles of so called _ Disregards _ and records of the plaintiffs. Those that he coincidentally meet with at the same grocery store or coffee house, those that he speaks with but never, ever discussing certain loopholes they could jump through so they needn't have to pay for the trials, and he certainly doesn't hint at specific organizations that could possibly help their situation. 

Matt works for Landman and Zack, obviously, and it isn't like these people could realistically even hire his services. _ Obviously_. But it is totally inevitable that a lawyer would lose a case, here or there. 

It's never enough, of course. But it soothes that ugly thing inside him for the time being, likewise placated only just by the fact he is a mule for Peter's sake. At least he's justified. )

* * *

Foggy, unfortunately, cannot be on call 24/7 as a spontaneous nanny. That doesn't pay as much as his current job, regrettably. 

The Children's Centre and Infant Daycare that exists within a reasonable distance is—expensive, like everything else in New York, but affordable. And Matt doesn't have a lot of options; he can't summon a pediatrician on hand, Foggy doesn't exist for Peter and having a home nanny feels—voyeuristic, in some weird, irrational way. He'd prefer Peter being able to talk so he can say if his babysitter did anything stupid in his own home.

Besides, the Centre has all the amenities and wouldn't run out of wipes like his house could even with a nanny. So there's that.

_ Get woken by Peter because he's a more reliable alarm clock, feed, dress, transit to the Centre, have the workers have to pry his son away, transit to work with the want to claw his brains out, transit to Centre, retrieve Peter and then home—_it's a routine, sprinkled sometimes with Foggy fetching Peter when Matt clocks overtime because the man is determined to be a one-man charity. Does Foggy like fruit baskets? He should get him a fruit basket.

Routine, clockwork, the drill that continues day in and day out and the eventual monotony of it is always eased when he has his son back in his arms. 

He does what he can for those that actually need help, in his cases (_never enough_). And when he sits on the edge of his bed without sleep as guilt wishes to drown him, he keeps his head above water with the mantra that this is for Peter. He'll bare all of the shame of it, and Peter can grow to be someone better.

(He knows he could, realistically, ask the nuns at St. Agnes to look after Peter while he's at work. And he also knows, realistically, they would be happy to.

But that feels—unacceptable. St. Agnes is an orphanage. Obviously, _ obviously_, Matt would only leave Peter there for a couple of hours, but that's too much. It's an orphanage. He can't do that.

Besides, the Sisters have actual charges to take care of, that require parental supervision and guidance.

Unacceptable in the sense it makes his skin writhe in something visceral, but also because it may as well be exploitation. There are children who need their help, and Peter is not one of them. He has a father.)

Matt can hear the direction of Peter's breath, and therefore can discern the approximate location of his mouth; moreso because his son is a total mouth-breather.

Which should make it easier to guide the spoon into Peter's mouth, but. It doesn't, not really, because Peter still doesn't know basic table manners, even if Matt pulls out the classic _ 'here comes the airplane' _ trick.

He's not about to grip Peter's chin and force him to face a single direction, but when he places a finger on Peter's cheek—to gently keep the boy still for a moment and also a double check to make sure he's facing the correct way—the kid turns his head to investigate the finger on his cheek as if it appears out of thin air.

Matt hasn't goofed the spoon into Peter's face to misemploy new face paint, but by Peter's insistence that he move his head, one would think he just really, really wants a mask made of baby food.

"C'mon, buddy, work with me here." Matt mutters. He can't be a very good parent, because Peter just _ giggles_.

"Think this is funny, wise guy?" Matt says, leaning back slightly from Peter's highchair to give his best eyebrow wiggle that would have any infant in an uproar.

Peter responds in kind: he squeals, bangs his palms against the table of the highchair in encore. 

"Yeah you're a _ real _ riot, you know that?" Matt continues, giving an overly exaggerated point at Peter with his free hand.

Peter continues his cackling, free of any guilty conscious.

"Come on." Matt starts again, repositioning the spoon as Peter's undivided attention is upon him. "This is _ mango _ flavoured_. _ You've never even _ had _mango."

Practically ambrosia, but Peter needs to be coaxed to eat it. Since he knows, now, that Peter faces him correctly, Matt brings the spoon forward, an alluring jiggle present to keep Peter's attention. 

Victory is given when Matt can hear the _ slurp _ of Peter's mouth, and can feel the vibrations through the spoon of Peter's jaw moving over the plastic utensil.

"Tasty, right?" Matt says, expectant as he is able to safely retrieve the spoon. 

Peter gives his review in a _ 'bah,_' inflection the same as before and not very impressed sounding. Matt hears the dribble of baby food that doesn't quite finish it's journey splat into Peter's bib.

Matt moves to scoop another fill of baby food. "Everyone's a critic." He says.

* * *

"_Bahbap_."

"Yeah?"

"_Bannah?_"

"You don't say." Matt says, leaning upon his side on the floor with Peter, who, turns out, is a thrilling conservationist.

Peter waddles and crawls on all fours, absolutely babbling about the difficulties of sleeping all day and not being to eat during those times.

Matt's got a carpet beneath the two of them because infants need to live in a world made of bubble wrap. Matt waves what he's been assured is an outrageously coloured rattle, and makes a ringing chime with the bell. Peter, drawn to this baby-magnet, produces a squeal of delight.

"_Nahbah!"_

"_I know,_" Matt sympathises, hearing the shuffling of Peter movements against the floor and the small dribble of drool spilling onto his son's chin. "Must be very hard, isn't it?"

Peter makes a grab with his grubby hands towards the rattle, overconfident in his motor skills and the length of his arm and Matt switches out to give his kid a squishy plush of a dog.

An adequate alternative, as Peter giggles in glee and promptly flops onto his side and uses his mouth to navigate the pliability of the toy.

Peter's continued lament is muffled by the plush, and Matt hears the kicking of small feet against the carpet as the infant decides he wishes to become a worm.

Matt smiles. He reaches forward to tickle at Peter's stomach, eliciting high pitched cackling. 

"Maybe not so bad." He says.

* * *

_ 130 decibels, _ that’s how loud a baby cries.

A rock concert is 120. A race car is 130.

Peter is currently wailing directly into his ear. It’s earsplitting as usual, knives directly jabbed into his ears but it can be _ stopped_. Lulled is the enraged dragon by feeding, changing diapers, massages and/or the facilitation of the passing of flatulence. And Matt was an expert dragon tamer, at that point. Or he should have been. He had been so sure he had been, the baby-expert, crying subduer extraordinaire because he knows his kid well. 

Except Peter is _ crying, _ bawling as a banshee and Matt’s talents are completely wasted at the current moment because he _ won’t stop. _

He’s failing his son so bombastically and Peter is making sure he hears it. The boy has a vendetta and Matt cannot tune out something _ that is screaming into his fucking ear._

“Peter _ please,” _Matt pleads, out of options feeling like he’s about to wilt at any moment. He bounces in his living room like a rabbit in a desperate attempt to placate the poor child he holds. He caresses at Peter’s back in attempted reassurance, planted with intermittent pats if Peter actually does need help dislodging a particularly stubborn burp. 

“_Shhh,_” He continues, his symphony arranged with pacifications and beseechment, supported with continuous massages to further his point. 

Peter is undeterred, and Matt has never felt more incompetent in his entire life. And he’s been to law school. 

His diapers are clean, he’s been fed and won’t accept anything further, spits out his pacifier and Matt can feel that his temperature is at a comfortable level, not too hot nor cold and Matt is at a loss. Peter should be snug, especially considering the garment he wears currently is one he's worn before with no grievances, so it can't be a disagreeing texture. Peter should be ready for bed and yet he’s determined to level the entire building. 

“Shh, shh, c’mon Petey,” Matt says, the acrid treatment to his ears secondary to the fact his kid is wailing and he feels powerless to stop it. Noise complaints be damned, the late hour is irrelevant now and the neighbouring tenants will have to deal with this express alarm because he still needs to figure this out. This confounding, terrible thing that needs to be resolved before Peter cries himself dry.

He needs to investigate. He needs to find the root of this problem and settle it, and perhaps the familiar comfort of his crib will soothe him.

So that is what Matt decides upon as the next course of action. His usually flawless trifecta of rocking, cooing and caressing falling despairingly short, and Matt makes his way towards his room.

"It's alright, you're alright," Matt murmurs all the way, his stride quick with purpose. The standard reasons why Peter cries isn't what is causing his despair at the current moment and there is a very sudden, very unpleasant feeling bubbling inside him. Once he has Peter safe in his crib he'll commit himself immediately to a thorough examination to ensure nothing _ inside _ Peter is wrong.

And it’s with such urgent purpose Matt practically leaps into his room, and with worry a near-paralyzing thing, it is only when Peter is laid prone in his crib that Matt becomes aware that Peter has stopped crying. He has stopped crying, and now is _ dreadfully quiet_.

At first, his knees almost give way. Like the air in his lungs have been forcefully pulled from him, and he needs to will himself to focus. The sharp, sudden contrast of a cacophony turned silence is discordant to everything he has and his brain needs to restart.

_ Ba-bump_. A beating heart. Slower than when he is awake; 80-100 beats, as Matt counts. _ Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump_, rhythmic and predictable, ever continuous and Matt is rooted to the spot. He's white-knuckled on the railing of the crib, so much so the wood creaks but he doesn't take notice. 

Peter's… asleep. He's fine. Matt hears the exhalation and inhalation of his son, in and out and quiet as a mouse but—obviously there. The movement of Peter's clothing from the expansion and contraction of his chest continues likewise, mellow in this now graveyard of an apartment.

He knows Peter breathes and sleeps but Matt brings a hand forward to ghost just above Peter's nose and mouth. The gentle blow of air, the _ feeling _ of breath so undeniable, warm like a caress and Matt nearly slumps into a heap. His grip upon the railing subsides, a creak of relief a peripheral pick up. 

_ Jesus Christ, _ he nearly had a heart attack. Truly, actually might've had a heart attack; his chest had constricted like encased in ice and his senses went off into overdrive all at once, focused entirely on the bundle in front of him.

Because Peter suddenly went so quiet. Merely asleep like he hadn't been caterwauling only seconds prior. Not playing dead. Not dead in general.

(And he _ flinches, _ at that last thought.)

He leans back, walks back, until his knees hit the edge of his bed and Matt merely sags to a sit. So he needed his crib. Peter needed a comfortable and sturdy bed. That's all. That's fine.

Is he sweating? He may be sweating. Like a marathon, that all was.

With the abrupt silence returning like a brick to the face, Matt sits and—well, he just sits. The world around him comes back on its own terms.

Cars in the street, a couple walking side by side sharing a joke a block over, three men together sharing a smoke three blocks away, a back alley rendezvous two streets over, rats sifting through the trash all over, the breath of sleeping tenants, a teen staying beyond her bedtime to play on her handheld, a toaster going off, lightswitches being flicked, a bath being run, someone taking an evening jog, buzzing, Peter sleeping, _ buzzing—_

Matt blinks. The buzzing is nearby. Nearby, and insignificant, but ever present. He stands, and makes way to his living room like in a trance, caught upon this siren song.

He stands, motionless, once he's reached his destination, facing the windows.

Buzzing. Constant, ever monotonous buzzing exuded from the neon gas and electricity and atoms being ionized because there’s some huge goddamn lights that illuminate his living room like floodlights when it's nighttime.

_ Purple, _ he’s been told. 

_ Buzzing_, because there exist neon lights that may as well act like a beam from a UFO. 

Fucking. Goddamn _ buzzing_. Because his living room is lit like a theater production and Peter is centre-stage. 

He’s tuned out that buzzing and what it means for long enough it’s practically non-existent. But Peter wants to sleep, clearly, and he can’t do that when there’s a tractor beam pointed straight at him. 

It was too bright. Peter wanted to sleep, but there had been too much light. The lightswitch in Matt's room practically has cobwebs upon it because he simply. Doesn't use it. Because he doesn't need it. It was dark, so Peter just_ fell asleep._

(God, he'll need to get used to that. Turning on and off lightswitches, for Peter.) 

“Guess it’s time to invest in some curtains.” Matt mutters to himself, surfing a hand through his hair.

With the clarity reclaimed from the absence of eardrum destroying wailing, Matt now knows there's a ringing accompanying that buzzing. Except the ringing is closer. _ Internal. _

Fuck, his ears are literally ringing. He'd call Peter a menace, if he didn't love him so.

* * *

"He's like a race car." Foggy surmises, seated a few short feet away from said race car, which is waddling with purpose towards his uncle.

"Try not to make sounds effects." Matt says, listening to how Peter makes his way on all fours like a seal bobbing up and down. Peter gives his own assessments with _ 'uh'_s and _ 'ah'_s, mouth open in a wide smile and this kid is eager. He knows he'll be adored when he reaches either target, as demonstrated by both Matt and Foggy spontaneously gaining the affection of puppy when Peter reaches them.

And Pete's an athlete; this is his fourth cycle crawling towards Foggy, having waddled between Matt and Foggy as the pair sit across each other.

And, of course, since Matt mentioned it, Foggy creates race car noises as Peter approaches.

"_Vroom vroom,_" Foggy narrates, and Peter always appreciates a comedian, as he squeals with delight. 

Matt hears Peter continue, reaching towards Foggy as he acquiesces, picking the infant up from underneath his armpits and lifting.

Foggy's voice erupts in congratulations and cheer, and Peter responds in kind with giggles. By the sound of Foggy's hair swishing, the man shakes his head like a rattle while giving a resounding sound of mirth. 

"You're so talented!" Foggy praises, and Matt hears the grazing of cloth and skin; Foggy bounces Peter in his grip. "You're the coolest baby in town!" 

"Keep that favouritism up," Matt adds, cross legged and leaning his elbows on his knees as his hand supports his head. "I'll have nothing less."

"Nor will Peter, I'd imagine. Raising a narcissist." Foggy says, lowering Peter at the boy flails and giggles in continued gratification. "C'mon you, back to Daddy."

The sound of change in the direction of Peter's breathing means that Foggy turns the infant so that he faces Matt. A little _ 'pap' _ indicates the tiny feet of the boy land on the floor, and slightly louder _ 'pap' _ means that Peter's rump follows soon after.

"_Mush_," Foggy commands, pointing towards Matt direction as Matt himself repositions so that he leans forward with arms splayed open. He beckons the boy forward with his hands, his smile still ever present as he hears Peter give him an appraisal.

"Come on," Matt coaxes. "Come to Dadda."

He hears minute wetness; Peter licks his lips as he faces a herculean task, and then hears him beginning to, in Foggy's words, _ mush_. 

Then there's the tapping of his hands and feet, the shuffling of his clothing as Peter crawls.

Then—a hesitation, an especially harsher tap as Peter lays his palms flat upon the floor. Then his heels dig in, nearer to his palms and the crinkling of clothing bending at his knees as—

Foggy's gasp sounds as though he inhales every molecule of oxygen at once.

"Matt, oh my god he's trying to stand—Matt on my God he's standing —Mattohmygodhe's_ walking—_"

And he _ is_. The footfalls of his kid is just that: done by his feet, and not accompanied with his hands. Peter has lifted himself and is _ walking._ As an actual _ biped_.

He's evolved. He's superhuman and walking. Completely unaware of his own prowess, Peter continues and Matt feels himself give out an excitable gasp. His kid stomps are uncoordinated and stumbling, but Peter _ walks_. His boy steps like a miniature Godzilla, completely unfazed by his new height and talent.

"Make sure he doesn't fall," Matt orders with as much authority he can muster while smiling in glee at the same time. The sudden outburst of air displacement means Foggy does just that; he crouches down behind the newly christened biped and acts as a safety net with his hands near the boy and ready to harmlessly catch him. Foggy continues a mantra of _ 'ohmygod'_s to further this security spell.

"Mahbap," Peter says, and that ever approaching bumbling comes closer. 

"That's right," Matt says, leaner further forward to meet his kid halfway. "_C'mere_." 

"Dah!" 

If he didn't know better, he may have written that down as Peter's first words; _ 'dad_.'

(Oh, who is he kidding; he absolutely registers that as Peter's first words.)

Peter sings his rejoice with a high-pitched sound, practically as jubilant as both his father and uncle. Peter's squeal is then realized into a hearty giggle fit as Matt makes him a bird; he seizes the boy once he completed his trek, lifting him up to have him soar above before Matt brings him closer to blow a raspberry against Peter's neck.

Matt supports Peter's head and his lower back as he tickles the boy's neck and upwards to his cheek. He listens keenly to how his boy sniggers like a chime in the wind. He's attentive to the tremors he feels through his hands at how Peter laughs and reaches out with little hands, avid in his want to touch his father's face. He feels the tracings of ten miniature fingers, light as a tickling feather and heavy as a kiss.

Peter makes small sputtering by pressing his tongue and lips together. He tracks Matt’s face further with his hands, and Matt, with the rest of existence faded so completely and smoothly as Peter has done time and time again, leans forward to touch his forehead against Peter’s own. 

He can hear Peter’s mouth open with curved lips, a wide smile played across his features as he makes an elated noise. Matt can hear the way Peter’s eyes crease from the movement of his cheeks brought on by his smile, and feels his smile deepening. 

_ Click._

Matt isn’t brought out of his reverie rudely from the camera click, instead, he actually snickers once he’s reminded by Foggy’s presence. 

"That a keeper?" He asks, releasing the forehead touch between he and his son as he turns to face Foggy’s direction.

"_Absolutely._" Foggy says, smirking. "You two are models. I'm sure if I sold this to some mom's magazine, I'd be rich and you'd have ten wives and also ten husbands."

"Just the way I like it." Matt drawls back, setting Peter downwards so he may continue waddling.

* * *

August 27th. That's the day Peter was born, and it's been a full _ year _ since then. 

A full, rollercoaster of a year. _ A year_, 12 months, 52 weeks and 365 days and it's August 27th again. Peter's been on this planet wobbling on those baby feet and hands, suckling on bottles and using diapers for a year. He's graduated from being a quadruped to using his feet as they were intended and chews on pureed vegetables and fruits, pasta, mashed potatoes like the connoisseur he is. He has expanded his horizons and Matt thinks, sooner or later he'll be able to form coherent sentences and speak. And use the _ toilet_.

Holy shit. Matt's been taking care of his son for a full year and now Peter's _ one year old_.

He hasn't decorated his place for this event. No balloons, no streamers, no confetti; his apartment remains as it always does with no change. Matt doesn't need such superficial embellishments, nor does he think Peter. Peter isn't so shallow, because he's going to have _ cupcakes_.

Cupcakes that Foggy _ ordered _ from a baker after his own attempt clearly resulted in what Matt assumes is something black and charred, and probably not in the realm of being edible. Foggy smells vaguely burnt. He smelled vaguely burnt since the moment he came in but suspiciously not his cupcakes, which smelled suspiciously _ too _ good. 

Turns out Foggy "_oh yeah sure I know how to bake_" Nelson doesn't actually know how to bake. Turns out Foggy _ “Yeah. Yeeeeaaah, I totally made these.” _ Nelson is also a terrible liar. But Matt already knew that. Knew _ both _of that.

Not that Matt really cares. Nor _ Peter, _who is vociferous in his appetite. Clearly, ground meats, scrambled eggs and canned fruits having nothing on applesauce cupcakes.

_ Babies at this age should be encouraged to self-feed as much as possible. Babies are tactile, so do not fret if your child squishes or plays with their food, they are learning. _Matt remembers hearing. So mealtimes are always such an unbridled mess of foodstuff and enlightened baby brains. 

Peter is mashing, squishing and flattening his cupcake piece, the pastry splattered upon his highchair table like it spontaneously combusted. Painted like a crime scene, Foggy described it, with Peter making a very convincing Hannibal Lecter impression. And Matt can envision it all too easily: the staining that exists painted like an improvised muzzle, christened red upon his cheeks, lips and hands like he eviscerated something other than a cupcake. 

“He’s like Picasso,” Foggy says through a mouth full of pastry. “You should frame this table, man, you gotta encourage this artistry.” 

“I’ll take your word for it,” Matt replies, listening to how Peter chews with his mouth open. He turns to face his kid directly. “Are you gonna grow up to become an artist, Peter?” 

Peter mumbles something inherently that Matt assumes is an affirmative. He can hear a small ‘_plop,' _which is the sound of the remnants of Peter’s food falling from his hand onto his table. The swishing of air next to him means that Peter reaches forward towards his father, the squishing of the crumbs that still exist in Peter’s palms meaning he does so with a grasping motion. 

Matt means to close the distance with his own hand. But because Peter is infinitely talented and the gift that keeps on giving, Peter’s _ ‘uh’_s soon turn into something else. 

"Dadda," comes a small, distinctly Peter-sounding voice. And Matt both feels, and hears, both he and Foggy still immediately. There’s a _ ‘plat_’ from Foggy’s own cupcake falling onto his plate unceremoniously.

"Did you hear that?” Foggy asks eagerly, the rapid movement of his hair meaning he looks back and forth from Peter to Matt. "_Matty._"

"Yeah, yeah I heard him." Matt says, his grin creeping into his speech. He still faces Peter entirely, and he thumps on his chest to indicate himself. "_Dadda_." He enunciates, slowly, at the boy. 

"Dadda!" Peter squeals and Matt is melting, he’s sure. 

“Holy shi—schnitzel!” Foggy is literally gripping at his hair in excitement. He lets out a small laugh, one imbued with healthy amazement. Chair creaking and rustling of clothing; Foggy also turns to fully face Peter. “_Foggy, _ can you say Foggy?” And he, too, thumps at his chest. 

Then there’s quiet moment of anticipation, heavy with expectations like they wait for the winning lottery numbers. The stillness stretches onward, Foggy’s hand still upon his chest and Peter, likewise quiet, appears to simply stare at the man, seemingly unimpressed with the man’s prompting.

Matt doesn’t have time to feel sorry for the guy because he hears Peter swivel his head back towards him, hears him emit another giggle before the shaking of his seat means the baby bounces in his seat. 

“Dadda,” Peter says, and Matt thinks Peter may be proud of himself for accurately identifying his parent. Matt knows_ he _ is, to the point he almost feels arrogant. “Dadda!”

Matt nods his head. “Yeah!” He points a finger towards Peter, “_Peter. _ You’re Peter!” 

Self-awareness still up to debate, Peter merely continues to giggle as he makes a grab for Matt’s finger. Matt allows the acquisition, leaning forward for his boy to have full access to his hand.

Foggy, evidently still miffed that Peter seemingly ignored his entire presence (despite giving the kid cupcakes), slumps in his seat. “Ouch.” He says, though with little actual hurt.  
  
Matt snorts. “Don’t take it too personally.”

Peter continues to hold onto Matt’s hand, continues that serenade of _ ‘dadda,’ _ and Matt couldn’t feel better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, next chapter will have Matt juggle vigilantism with being a dad, I promise.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
